


Samantha Is Not A Boy's Name

by inkfingers_mcgee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Case Fic, Character Study, F/F, Female Sam Winchester, Femslash, Genderswap, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:16:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkfingers_mcgee/pseuds/inkfingers_mcgee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam wakes up to the miles-long legs of a woman sloping from beneath his rumpled comforter, he thinks for a moment he’s gotten very, very lucky.</p><p>Then he realizes the legs are attached to him and knows he’s very, very fucked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for ignorance-based transphobic language throughout, implications of sexual violence, and overuse of italics. 
> 
> Inspired by this post by QueenAbaddon on tumblr.com: " _wouldn’t it be cool as fuck if the episode that sam turns into a girl, dean goes to charlie for help and sam and charlie just turn into the best sisters ever [...]_  
>  ~~and maybe charlie is attracted to girl!sam and ahh yes hello i want a fic~~ "

When Sam wakes up to the miles-long legs of a woman sloping from beneath his rumpled comforter, he thinks for a moment he’s gotten very, very lucky.

Then he realizes the legs are attached to him and knows he’s very, very fucked.

The thought that it’s a not real hardly occurs to him because he’s been around that block before, but just to be sure, he presses with his thumbnail into the scar on his hand. No change. He jerks around, alert for a sign of a djinn or a trickster or—

 _Shit, he has breasts_. He’s not going to look, because it’s before 6 AM and _breasts, what the fuck_ , but he can feel them pulling and sweaty under the blankets so he doesn’t have much of a doubt that they’re there.

His first thought is to wake Dean, but _no_ , holy shit, Dean can’t see him like this. He’d never hear the end of it. His second thought is that he should assess the situation in full before he does anything else. Covers shoved aside, he slips out of bed and goes unsteady on his feet to his bedroom’s adjoining bathroom. Everything is off-kilter; he’s still nearly the same height but his hips are all wrong and he’s really distracted because _damn_ , lady nipples, but he makes it and locks the door behind him. He turns to the mirror with a spin of hair and almost pisses himself.

The woman in the mirror is, in a word, _fine_. She’s all long, sculpted limbs and sloping curves and lean muscle, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped and tight around the waist, battered by a patchwork of old scars and new scuffs. Her hair’s longer than is practical, tumbling into the gullies of her collarbones and breasts (which, _hello there_ , are really filled out). A demon warding tattoo peeks from between the tangles. Her stare is wide and bloodshot from never enough sleep, set in a regal kind of forehead above a smooth, sloping nose and soft lips just sort of hanging open.

“Holy shit,” says the woman in the mirror, except Sam’s saying it too, and it’s coming out a shade higher, because that’s actually his mouth, because, “Oh, God, I’m a _chick_.” He probably should have picked that up sooner, but there’s no process for accepting these kinds of things— which is, most likely, why the situation devolves into Sam standing so close to the mirror that his breath fogs it, incredulously running his hands from the heaviness of his breasts, to the dip of his waist and finally across his crotch, which is despairingly flat beneath his ill-fitting boxers.

He’s a few rounds into the Macarena of disbelief before he realizes that he is essentially fondling himself in the bathroom mirror. This forces him to step back and suffer a brief, horrifying flash of empathy for Becky Rosen. Now the lady in the mirror is blushing, which something especially unhelpful in the back of his head is associating with Jess and the way she used to flush when he’d catch a glimpse of her between the shower and her towel.

Sam groans, puts a hand to his face and moans, “Oh, God.”

“Hell, Sam, I don’t want to hear you jerkin’ off in there! You sound like a hooker!”

Heat overtakes Sam’s face. Dean’s awake. He’s going to have to tell him. He's going to have to tell Dean that he's turned into a freakin' _girl_.

“Damn it,” he hisses, snatching yesterday’s shirt off the floor. His hands are awkward over the buttons, smaller and slimmer and slipping off the edges. Finally he gets the damn thing all done up, and then pulls on a pair of pants, which are less than fitted but will do for now. Satisfied that he’s not completely indecent, he makes his way to the library.

When Dean sees his younger brother, he chokes on his coffee and shoots off the edge of the table where he’s been seated.

“ _Sam_?”

“I think so.”

“What the _fuck_?”

Sam tosses his arms up. “I don’t know!”

“You don’t _know_?”

“I just woke up this way!”

Squinting, brows arched, Dean asks, “You can’t think of any reason for this?”

“No!” Sam crosses his arms over his chest (which is not as easy as it used to be), suddenly very conscious under Dean’s thorough thrice-over. “I’m telling you, Dean, I have no idea!”

For a painful moment Dean just stares. Then he comes stomping up close, pulls a knife from inside his jacket, and draws a slice across Sam's (still surprisingly large) bicep. Sam watches the blood drip, frowning.

“Dude, I’m not a—” He yelps when Dean uncaps a canteen of holy water in his face. “Dean!” He sputters, wipes his eyes. “Jesus, it’s me, okay?”

“Well, fuck me,” Dean says. He screws the lid back on the canteen as his face slides with alarming fluidity from skeeved out to mildly approving. “You’re finally a real girl.”

Sam frowns with every iota of his energy. “This isn’t a joke, Dean!”

“Don’t get your panties all twisted,” Dean snipes. “You checked for hex bags yet?”

“No.”

“Then let’s go.”

They overturn Sam’s room three times and find nothing out of the ordinary. The library welcomes them back echoing their huffs of annoyance, Sam’s a register higher than usual. Dean goes to the mug of coffee he left on the table and slides it away with only a hint of melodrama, then goes to pour himself something stronger. “I guess I know what we’re doing today. Hit the books, Samantha.”

Sam groans, rakes a hand through his hair (there’s so _much_ ), and heads to the card catalog.

It probably says a lot about them that they slide back into rhythm within the hour.

Sam settles into the motor functions of his new body fairly quickly, though there are several instances when he reaches for something and doesn’t quite make it, or his hip knocks a leaning book off its shelf as he passes, or his feet won’t fall right and he stumbles into the table. But for the most part, it’s the same. Four limbs, eyes, ears, mouth. He even manages to forget about the breasts a few times. Dean alternates between staring at him and avoiding him, which is all the same, though Sam expected more jokes. It’s awkward, and it’s temporary, so he doesn’t expect Dean to adjust.

Dean’s tossed down his sixth glass of amber medicine and Sam’s on his ninth deceptively-promising encyclopedia entry when a throbbing silence cripples his mind and he slumps forward into the table. In the distance, as in those paralyzed moments between sleep and wakefulness, Sam thinks he senses hands on his shoulders, shaking him, but he can’t connect with it. All he knows is sharp, sharp quiet and the tension spooling out of his muscles. It hangs oppressive over him, writhing and heavy and crawling across his skin, like bugs he can't bat away or a lover that's fallen asleep on top of him. 

And then a voice: low, shuddering, more a vibration than a sound.

“ _Come to me, Sam_.”

And it’s over like that. Awareness snaps in with terse muscle and the grating noise that is Dean saying, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck _fuck_!”

“Dean?” Sam’s clutching his brother with both hands quite before he knows what he’s doing, a wild grab for purchase in a world that’s gone spinning. His ribs feel too small inside of him, crushing his lungs, squeezing his heart. A moment passes as he wonders whose fine hands those are against Dean’s strong arms. Nausea blooms in his belly when he remembers they're his.

“Hell, Sam, what was that?”

“I don’t know.” Deep breaths, then he’s able to let go. Embarrassment sets in instantly at Dean’s widened eyes, the rigid alarm in his posture. The guy’s terrified for him. “I’m fine,” Sam lies, and it doesn’t seem to help. Never does. It’s just habit at this point.

Dean grasps him by the shoulder. “That wasn’t fine. You fuckin’ checked out, man. Did you _faint_?”

“I didn’t _faint_.” Sam rakes away the overabundance of hair that’s fallen into his face. He’s gotta do something about that. Can hardly see around the stuff. God, he still can’t breathe evenly. “I just— everything went still and silent, and then I heard this... this voice.”

Dean sits down heavy next to him, squinting. “A voice?”

“Yeah.”

“Not like one of your psychic visions.”

A weight settles into Sam’s chest at that, and he’s not sure if he fields the impulsive look of shame before it hits his face. “No, no. Completely different. The visions were always really crazy and full of too much information, but this was the opposite. It was just a lot of nothing, and then the voice. That’s all.”

“It say anything?”

“Yeah. ‘ _Come to me_.’”

The chair creaks as Dean leans back in it, arms crossed. “Well, that’s friggin’ creepy.”

Understatement. “Yeah.” They sit there for a moment, mutually stumped. Sam looks down and scoffs in the back of his throat when the hair overtakes his face again; he rights it by jerking off the little twined bracelet he always wears and using it to pull the hair back. Dean’s amusement goes ignored as Sam wrestles with the overwhelming bounty that is his new hair, but finally gets it into a ponytail. The bangs can’t be tamed, though, and he blows at them, annoyed.

Dean snorts. “Gimmie five minutes with clippers, man.”

“Shut up.”

\-----

Twelve hours, a couple hundred books and two failed rituals later, Sam and Dean realize simultaneously that neither of them have eaten all day. The fact that Dean's spent three fourths of their waking day more concerned with Sam than food says a lot about the gravity of the situation; after the Episode earlier, Dean's been pretty shaken up. Sam's just done his best to put it out of his mind.

“Kitchen’s empty,” Dean grunts, moments after vanishing with the promise to whip something up. “Takeout?”

“No, I wanna get out of here.” Sam stands and stretches, breath hitching a little at the pull of his shirt over his breasts. That strikes him funny— _his_ breasts. Don’t breasts make him a “she”? He doesn’t feel any more like a woman. He’s still Sam, not _Samantha_ , regardless of Dean’s sudden fondness for the nickname. He logs the issue away for later, however, at the sight of the frown sitting all self-righteous on Dean’s mouth.

“You sure you should be going out?”

Sam reciprocates the glower. “I’m not invalid, Dean.”

“It’s not that,” Dean snaps, then looks away, jingling the Impala’s keys in his pocket. When he looks back, his expression is careful, not revealing much. Sam wants to kick him. “That _Girl, Interrupted_ thing was freaky shit, okay? If there’s some kind of a demon or a dreamwalker or something trying to get in your brain, you shouldn’t be running all over town just ‘cause you want some air.”

Sam huffs. “Dean, whatever it is, it did this to me in the first place while I was in here. I don’t think a change of scenery will make it any worse.”

A scoff comes scathing off Dean’s tongue, but judging by the way he shifts and looks at the ceiling, he knows he’s lost this one. And maybe Dean’s just a teeny bit right, but hell if Sam’s going to sit in the stale library air any longer.

“Wanna do that place down the street?” Sam asks, scooping up his jacket.

“With the flat burgers? No.”

“Oh, come on. You can survive a flat burger. All that means is a slightly smaller chance of you dying of a heart attack at forty-five.”

“I’ll be dead before then,” Dean snorts, and Sam lets it slide despite the prickle at the base of his neck and the pit in the bottom of his stomach. Best not broach that hornet’s nest right now.

The coat dwarfs Sam when he pulls it on, his shoulders swallowed and just his fingertips hanging beyond the cuffs of the sleeves. Dean gives him the once-over, then breaks the a laugh as he turns away.

“Alright,” he snaps over his shoulder, “corner place with crappy burgers it is.”

\-----

The burgers, Sam concedes, _are_ pretty crappy. The specimen on Dean’s plate is sad even by Sam’s standards, who is very happy with the crisp salad in front of him, thanks. What he is not happy with, however, is the inordinate amount of attention he’s received from strangers ever since they arrived. At first, he took it as a few cases of awkward eye-contact, then as his own paranoia, but now he’s fairly sure every guy in the place has raked their eyes over him like bed of leaves at least twice.

He leans across the table, voice low. “They’re _leering_ at me.”

Dean hisses out of the corner of his mouth, “It’s ‘cause you’ve got huge tits, your shirt's tight, and you’re not wearin’ a damn bra.”

“Oh, right, let me go get my extra one out of my bag. I think I packed it next to the _I didn’t plan on growing a vagina today, Dean_.”

Dean just scoffs into his crap-burger. 

Sam drops his fork with a clatter and buttons his jacket up to his neck. That’ll teach ‘em. It’s not that he isn’t used to being ogled by strangers, because that happens when you’re practically six and a half feet tall and you aren’t bad-looking. But this never-ending parade of bystanders with elevator eyes? He’s getting really tired really quickly. And, it’s worth mentioning: there’s something alarming about that many men looking on like he’s at their mercy. He can still beat the daylights out of any given eight of them at a time, but they don’t seem to think that, and it rubs him wrong up one side and down the other.

“You think chicks have to deal with this all the time?”

Shrugging, Dean speaks through a mouthful of beef. “Only the hot ones.”

Sam blinks at Dean for a dragging moment, then the older Winchester seems to realize what he’s said. He gives Sam a dead look.

“Not that _you’re_ …” He rolls his hand to supply for a nonexistent adjective, and Sam marvels that a man of 34 years and change can backslide into elementary awkwardness so easily.

"Dean—"

“Could I interest either of you in a desert?”

The Winchesters whip around as one to face the short, slight waitress at the end of their table. Her hair is dishwatery and fried in a manner that suggests she’s dyed it so many times that the current color isn’t quite intentional.

“Double deserts are half-price for couples,” she chirps, and Dean grinds to a halt with his mouth half-full of food. 

Sam coughs. “Um, we’re not togeth—”

“Definitely not,” Dean snaps, and swallows his mouthful. 

Sam frowns at him. Like this is any different than the innumerable times they’ve been mistaken for a gay couple. He turns to the waitress and pulls on his best sympathetic smile, though his mouth isn’t quite the same and he’s unsure if he hits his mark. “Nothing else for either of us, thanks.”

“Oh!” says the waitress, and pushes her fingers over a chunk of hair that is already tucked behind her ear. “Right. Okay.” She turns away, stiff, then whips back to Sam. He’s seen chihuahuas move with more fluidity.

She stares at Sam, her mouth slightly open, and when it becomes apparent that she’s not going to move, he leans forward with a raise of his brow. He’s about to inquire as to her wellbeing when she blurts, “You’re really pretty!” and makes a mad break for it. She’s no sooner hit the swinging kitchen doors than she stops with a hitch, runs back to the table, and slaps the tab on it. She scrambles off again, and her escape is finally complete with the flapping of the kitchen’s doors behind her. 

Dean blinks after her, laughs once, and says, “That was freakin’ weird.” He takes a swig of his beer, puts it down, and laughs again.

Sam scoffs and turns to his salad. It appears suddenly soggy. He pushes it away. “You done?” he asks. 

“Seriously?” Dean cocks an eyebrow. A smile crouches, ready to pounce, on one corner of his mouth. “You were the one all hot and bothered to get out of the cave.”

Sam finds himself inexplicably unwilling to dredge up any humor, though something spoilsportish inside him points out that this is an uncommon opportunity to diffuse tension. He wonders if they’d actually be able to talk to each other without tension’s silent chaperoning. “Yeah, well, now I’m ready to go back.”

“Calm your tits.” Dean takes a gargantuan bite, perhaps to chase all that snark. “Almost done.”

True to his word, Dean finishes quickly, and they’re back to the bunker in no time. Wordlessly they tuck into their research again; Sam boots up his laptop and ends up forfeiting it to Dean when his new fingers won’t type the same. Instead he lugs a tome of remedy spells from one of the taller book cases and winces when the volume plummets from the edge of the shelf, nearly popping his arms out of their sockets. He wonders if that would’ve happened 24 hours ago.

Sam drops the huge book to the table with a resounding thunder, then sits and pushes into the pages. He’s nestled between _afflictions_ and _ailments_ when Dean slaps the laptop shut and says, “This is fuckin’ ridiculous.”

Cutting a look through the mess of his bangs, Sam feels the rising nausea of _knowing_ , the anxiety that warns him what his brother’s thinking. Sure enough, Dean starts, “I wish we could—” and he doesn’t finish, but Sam hears the understood “— _just ask Bobby_ ” at the end.

“It’s gonna be fine, Dean.” The aged velvet bookmark of the tome runs smooth against Sam’s fingers as he marks his place; when the pressure of his hand rises off, the pages flip back slowly, years of disuse calling them to together. Sam looks up, finally, and finds Dean topping off an umpteenth glass of liquor. It’s a wonder they keep the stuff stocked.

“You say that,” Dean says gruff into his glass, “but while we’re grasping at straws, there’s some kinda mojo goin’ on that we can’t ward against, and there’s some nasty sonuvabitch out there that we can’t even identify— let alone gank— and I’m just not so hot on sitting next to the braless wonder, okay, Samantha?”

Sam breathes a sigh that shakes into a low chuckle. “You know, I didn’t think a real life situation where I turned into a girl would end in you making so few boob jokes. Pretty sure that’s only, like, the third one.”

Dean’s eyes flick momentarily to the boobs in question, and he snorts. “Ain’t no jokin’ about something that impressive.”

A grimace twists Sam’s face. “Dude, don’t even go there.”

“They sag like hell, though.”

Sam lifts a hand to rub his temple. “You know, pointing out that you weren’t making jokes wasn’t permission to be an asshole.”

Dean gives a derisive chuckle and Sam frowns in anticipation of another remark. Instead, Dean intones a slow, “Sam…” which earns him a glare. They watch each other a moment, and Dean forges on: “Look, here’s the thing. Right now, I look at you, and it’s freakin’ weird. I don’t know how it is for you, but for me, it’s—” A pause as he looks away and breathes sharp through his nose. He turns back. “Remember Lucifer, Sam?”

Sam’s hand drops from his face and he levels Dean with a look meant to say, _Of course I remember the devil, you asshat_ , which Dean takes with a nod and a grain of salt.

“When he... jumped you or whatever, I looked at you, and I knew you weren’t _you_. I looked you right in the face, and you weren’t Sam Winchester. Same when your soul was still in the pit. You, but not you. Now, it’s like the opposite. I look up and there’s this stranger sitting there, this chick, and it’s not you, but I look close and it _is_. And it’s just— weird, okay? Too close to all that possession shit. I just need to ice whatever did this and get you back to your normal, ugly self, capiche?” 

“Uh... yeah. Capiche.” Sam is fairly sure that his brother just compared sex change to Satanic possession, but his job is to say _capiche_ , so he does. He intends to leave it at that, but then Dean reclines into his chair, so nonchalant in his retreat to alcohol, and Sam adds, perhaps without meaning to, “We’re gonna fix this, okay?”

Dean watches, guarding something so carefully that the tightness of his face gives him away. “Sure.” He pushes up from the table. “Sure, Samantha.” And he departs from Sam with a long look, two parts wary, one part disturbed. 

Yeah, this is gonna be _fun_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean isn't thrilled, and Sam isn't wearing pants.

Dean hit his pillow that night with the utmost intention of waking up seconds later to find that the entire day had been a dream. Though Sam assured him more than once of the reality of it all, and Dean was nothing if not open-minded, this was straight-up LSD, acid trip, freaky shit. Weird even by their standards, leprechauns and unicorns accounted for. So it’s got to be a dream.

Except Dean wanders out of his room the next morning, and there’s Sam in nothing but loose briefs and a too-long undershirt, and he’s still a _she_.

“What the hell, Sam! Pants, damn it!”

Sam turns with his— her? _fuck_ — forehead all wrinkled up like somebody’s pulling a thread out of the middle of it, and Dean has to do his very best not to let his eyes fall below the neck, ‘cause damn, that shirt’s tight in all the right places. Except they’re the wrong places, because this is his kid brother. Sister. 

Whatever.

“Seriously, Dean? We’ve been living together for how many years and you’re doing this?”

Dean throws an extravagant gesture at Sam’s legs, all 18 barenaked miles of them. “Lady parts, man!”

Marvelous eyeroll. “I don’t think this is anything you haven’t seen before.”

“That ain’t quite the same as my snot-nosed, asshole _brother_ doing pinup shit in the kitchen.” Sam looks all scandalized and Dean can’t muster up a fuck to give about it. He thrusts a pointing finger in the direction of Sam’s room. “Seriously, pants!”

Sam groans. “Dean! Making cereal isn’t ‘pinup shit.’ I’m just trying to—” He breaks off, does that obnoxious huffing thing where his nostrils flare. “I’m trying to get comfortable, okay?”

Dean squints. Did he just say— “ _Comfortable_?”

Another huff from Sam as he tries to cross his arms, only to decide his chest area is a hindrance, resulting in his hands dangling awkwardly at his sides. “Yeah, comfortable inside my own body. You got a problem with that?”

“You sound like a Dove commercial!” Dean bites. “You sure you didn’t _want_ this curse, Samantha?”

Sam discovers in that moment that his hands can rest quite imposingly on the narrow arch of his new hips. “Look, Dean, after the massive amount of nothing we found out yesterday, we need to get used to the idea that maybe I’m going to be like this for a while. This isn’t even near the worst curse we’ve ever dealt with, so the best thing to do is calm the hell down and deal with it.”

“‘Not the worst’—?” Dean turns, scoffing, toward the table. Maybe, just maybe, when he turns back around, Sam’s head won’t be firmly planted up his own ass. He spins and finds that, no, the kid’s still aligned with the world’s bitchiest attitude, sharp in his grimace and in the overbearing kind of way he’s got his left hip cocked.

“Sam,” Dean implores, “are you forgetting that friggin’ creepy vision you had? _Come to me_ and shit?”

Sam’s bangs fan high above his face with a sharp sigh. “I’ve experienced every kind of possible vision, hallucination, and head trip that you could ever imagine, Dean, and probably a bunch that you couldn’t. Getting worried over that episode yesterday would be like watching me string out on heroin for my whole life and then worrying I’m gonna die when I inhale secondhand cigarette smoke.” His eyebrows pinch up in the middle and his voice does that soft, strained thing it’s prone to when he’s patting the back of someone whose spouse has become vampire floss. “I’ve handled worse. This is really nothing to be worried about.”

Dean is reminded, like a swift kick to the solar plexus, how precious little Sam has ever imparted to him about those days in detox, or those months of Tuesdays, or all those years of Lucifer in the pit. It makes his shoulders feel heavy and his stomach go tight that, no, he probably can’t imagine half that shit, and even if he could, he couldn’t make it go away.

A sigh comes unbidden and heavy on his throat. “So,” he grunts, “we’re not gonna worry about _Come to me_?”

Sam shrugs. “Not unless you think I’m gonna go to it.”

With a push of bare feet, Dean vaults himself up onto the counter, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with still-standing Sam. Not that he’ll ever admit it, but he’s irked beyond words that he’s still the short one. Sam taller as a man? He never cared much; genes do what they want. But Sam taller as a woman? The universe is obviously saying “fuck you.”

Sighing again, Dean draws a hand over his face. “If it tries some kind of mind control mojo?”

“You’ll have to keep me here,” Sam murmurs, leaning against him. His shoulders are broad for a lady’s but smaller than they’re supposed to be, sending an odd kind of impulse through Dean, something in his tricep, maybe, that urges him to wrap his arm around the kid.

He huffs and hops off the counter. “Let’s break this curse before it comes to that, yeah?”

“I’m starting to wonder if this is actually a curse,” Sam says, all cautious-like, and Dean spins on his heel.

“What?”

“No, forget it.” Sam’s turning back to the counter, tipping a cereal box over into a bowl.

“If it’s not a curse, what the hell is it? Gabriel’s dead and this ain’t a djinn thing, unless you have a fantasy you’ve never told me about, or we’re in somebody’s wet dream.”

“Ew, no. I don’t mean it’s not real.” Cereal box under his arm, Sam turns toward Dean but doesn’t look up from the bowl in his hand. “I’m just saying, you know, that curses are usually pretty bad. You die of fear, or bad luck, or whatever. But it’s been almost 24 hours and I’m...” Sam looks up and— oh, hell, is he _blushing_? “I actually feel pretty great.”

Dean squints, makes a noise. Is—? No. Surely not. “Please don’t tell me you’re into this.”

Sam pulls a terrible-looking grimace. “It’s not like that, it’s—”

“The hell it isn’t! You _like_ it!”

The cereal bowl drops to the counter with a sharp bang. Sam’s hands are on his lady-hips again. “Look, if _you_ woke up one day in the body of a beautiful woman—”

Dean scoffs. “Jesus, Sam!”

“Aw, come on, Dean! Look at this.” Sam gestures at himself like Vanna fucking White. “Are you seriously telling me you wouldn’t find _some_ way to enjoy this?”

“Of course I would. I’d shack up in my room and make it a damn bank holiday. But I wouldn’t go saying it’s not a curse! These things always start out great before they go to shit, and you know it. And if you can’t see that past your tits, even with the whole _Come to me_ thing, you’re—” he breaks off, scowls. “Let’s just get back to figuring out in the hell what this is before you get any more screwed up.”

Sam whips out a glare that could cut a man down at the knees. “Fine. Whatever.” He stalks off in the direction of his room, presumably to get some pants. As he goes, Dean gives a sidelong glance at his backside and… okay, yeah.

He calls after him, “I’ll give you this: those Winchester genes are fine!”

“Gross, Dean!” echoes high-pitched back down the hall, and Dean snorts. Still the exact same flavor of bitch.

\-----

“That _sucked_.”

Dean looks up from bandaging his hand and grimaces at the scent of burnt hair Sam’s brought from the library. He ties off the gauze. “You goin’ for understatement of the year?”

Falling on a deep sigh, Sam plants himself next to Dean on his bed. “It really seemed like it’d work.” There’s an angry cut on his temple and a chunk of hair hanging out of his ponytail, cut unevenly at the courtesy of Dean’s knife.

The ritual was at least a bit promising; a lock of hair and a tablespoon of tears from the afflicted, a couple of paragraphs of Latin, a few symbols painted on the floor in blood. One of the simpler ones they tried, but it came from one of Bobby’s old books and seemed more trustworthy than the countless remedies offered by the faceless Men of Letters.

So Dean pulled out his knife went about creating the symbols while Sam vanished into his room to conjure up a tablespoon of tears. When he returned red-eyed and slick-lashed, Dean didn’t ask, just sliced off some hair (“Dean! We don’t need that much!”) and put it in a bowl with the tears. The staccato chant of Latin ran low from Sam’s lips, strangely more melodic on a female tongue, and then the room fell dark for a long moment, and Dean thought that was it. He was so sure, when the lights turned back on, that he’d be staring at his brother.

Instead the lights came up with a stench of ozone and the bowl of hair and tears burst into flames, then shattered; the Winchesters hit the floor, full of Corelle Ware. It was, by far, their most spectacular failure of the ordeal.

So now, Dean’s got a sliced-up hand and a disillusioned brother-sister-thing, and he’s about ready to drop-kick whatever belly-crawling monster scum cooked this up.

“I need a drink,” Sam groans, “on tap, in a bar,” and Dean hasn’t heard anything so good in two days.

“I’ll get my coat.”

\-----

The _air_ in the Impala is sullen, Sam’s so down. He’s slouched in his seat, clutching his overlarge jacket tight around him, glaring out the window. Dean hasn’t seen that look since their dad told Sam to get rid of that stupid dog— Chester? Charlie? something— and the sulking had gone on for days. Now, he’s not quite sure what the deal is. This morning Sam was the poster child for embracing the situation, and now he looks positively wrecked over it. Dean would attribute the mood-swings to lady hormones, but moodiness is one of the staples of Sam’s personality. No, this is par for the course; he just wishes he knew what was driving the roller coaster this time.

In lieu of voicing any of that, he snaps, “Stop bitching.”

Sam shoots up straight in his seat. “I’m not even talking!”

“I’m talking about your face. God, you look like you’ve got a kink in your vagina.” That gets a sharp look, and Dean can’t keep himself from smirking. “What’s that like, by the way?”

“What?”

“You know what I mean. You were droppin’ some pretty heavy hints this morning. How’s things on the other side of the fence? Being the glove instead of the hand?”

The scowl goes all deer-eyes. “Dean—”

“Just asking, man. S’not every day I can ask these questions without gettin’ slapped.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Sam growls and pulls his loose ponytail tighter. “Don’t be so sure.”

“Sure, Brandon Teena. But seriously, what’s it like having piping?”

A snort, and Sam looks out the window. “Not that different.”

“Not that—?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Seriously? You gotta give me more than that.”

Sam shrugs. “Well, multiple orgasms are pretty intense.”

If Dean almost veers off the road, that’s really not his fault. “The hell!”

Now Sam’s giggling under his breath, and Dean’s torn between feeling gratified that he cracked the stony face, and leaning over to slap that grin off of him. He’s _certainly_ not going to admit that the smile is really, honestly beautiful.

“You asked, Dean.”

“Yeah, but I was going for helpful tips and tricks, not your frickin' sex diary. Plus, come on, multiples?” He’s impressed more than one fine lady that way, thank you very much. “I knew about _that_.”

Sam smirks. “Not firsthand.”

“Oh, hell, don’t brag about it. You’re cursed, remember.” He really hadn’t meant to ruin the mood, but there Sam goes, long-faced again, no more of that winning smile Dean didn’t want to like.

“Yeah, you don’t have to remind me.”

“Apparently someone has to,” Dean grumbles, and that’s it: Sam’s silent for the rest of the ride. He shoves out of the car with vehemence when they arrive at the bar, then slams the Impala’s door behind him.

Dean bristles. “Hey, _gentle_!”

Sam doesn’t even look back. 

As they push through the front doors, Dean says, “Don’t go picking up any boys, now, Samantha.” Sam parts from him with a glower and heads straight for the bar.

The air inside is heavy with smoke and conversation. A moment of deliberation passes as Dean glances from a gaggle of skirts at the bar to the bustling pool table on the other side of the room. He could use some serious tension relief, but picking up a chick under Sam’s current condition would probably prove dangerous, and they _could_ use some extra cash…

“You boys playin’ for keeps?” he asks as he approaches the pool table. He smirks under the judging looks the players give him, and in no time he’s “lost” 240 dollars over two games. 

Just as he’s breaking open his wallet to fund his last “loss” before he wipes the floor with their asses, he catches a glimpse of Sam at the bar. So far he’s been deliberately removing himself, focusing on screwing over every shot just so, but he sees now that there’s a man leaning into Sam’s space and can’t help but chuckle into his collar. He’s gonna give the kid hell for that when they leave.

“You gonna shoot, or what?”

He turns to the gruff voice next to him with a twirl of chalk on cue. “Keep your shirt on, Deliverance. I’m gettin’ in the zone.” 

But his gaze slips back to the bar as he bends down to shoot, just in time to see Sam push away the drink the guy seems to be offering him. Something stirs in Dean’s gut, rising like bile in his throat and stale when it hits his tongue, something familiar and old. He’s reminded, very distinctly, of the first time he witnessed Sam struck by a bully, the first time he thought he might be capable of killing a human.

The cue snaps against the ball and Dean sinks the 9 in the corner pocket. He stands, eyes sharp on Sam. The kid says something that makes the man back away; Dean’s body uncurls around him. A glance down finds his fist white around his stick.

Sam seems to order another drink, and Dean’s not quite sure whether that should worry him.

"You got your eye on that one?” One of the players, a bearded fortysomething in a fishing hat, leans all conspiratorial-like over the table, nodding in Sam’s direction. “She's fine, inn't she?”

The other player, older and missing one of his front teeth, shakes his head. "Nah, look at her! That’s a lesbian if I ever seen one."

Fishing Hat whistles. "Oh, that'd be a cryin' shame."

"You wanna bet on it?" Dean’s asked it quite before he knows what he’s doing. There’s something in his brain screeching, _No! Turn back!_ but Bad Teeth and Fishing Hat are giving him their full attention, and Dean’s mouth keeps going. "Five Benjamins I can walk out of here with that girl on my arm."

The two men give each other a glance, then Fishing Hat says, "You're on."

So, with that utterly shitty decision made, Dean heads for the bar. He takes a seat on the stool next to Sam, who gives him a long, soggy glance, but doesn’t say anything. Dean can’t quite tell for the change in face, but he’s fairly sure he hasn’t seen the kid this wasted since the incident with the mini-bar after their dad warned them some Cain and Abel shit might be on the table. He clears his throat, willing that particular memory to fuck off.

"Sam, act like you're into me."

Sam gives him a distant, squinting look. " _What_?"

"Act like you're into me then follow me out.” At Sam’s continued confusion, Dean leans closer and whispers, “I’ve got a bet with those guys over at the pool table."

Sam’s eyebrows vanish up into his bangs and he gives a loud _tsh_. "Screw yourself, Dean.”

Dean gets in closer. "Sam! It's an easy five-hundred bucks!"

"No."

“We could really use—”

“ _No_ ,” hisses Sam, and his breath is all alcohol and barely contained yelling.

Sighing low, Dean puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Samantha, c’mon, just—”

“S’this what I am to you now?” He shakes off Dean’s hand. “Some kinda… I dunno, your racehorse? You’re betting on me? Jesus.” His voice goes pitchy over his Lord and Savior’s blasphemed name. “Just… no. Get outta here, Dean.”

Dean puts a hand on Sam’s, speaks with all the urgency he can get at a whisper. “Hey, don’t be like this. You’ve had enough, anyway. Just— head out and wait by the car, and I’ll—”

“ _No!_ ” Sam tosses up all eight miles of his arms, pushing Dean back. “Fuck _off_ ,” he barks, and Dean slides off his stool with his hands lifted in surrender.

“Okay, okay. Fine. I’m going.” He backpedals under Sam’s glare, then turns, hunched and swearing, back to the grinning pair at the pool table.

“Good thing you’ve got your looks,” says Bad Teeth. Fishing Hat snickers and Dean zings them with his best _I hope you’re castrated in a tragic accident_ look.

“S’just not ready to leave,” he grumbles, fishing out his wallet. “Nothing personal.” He forks over the $500 under the heavy mantra of his father calling him a damn fool somewhere in the pit of his brain.

Fishing Hat snorts over his winnings, counting them with a satisfied tick to one corner of his mouth. “Looked personal to me. Ain’t no girl that drunk who’s not ready to leave with a looker like you. Know what it’s all about?” A didactic gesture with the mess of bills in his hand. “ _Charm_. Watch and learn some, boy.”

And again, Dean is reminded of his capacity for murder as he watches the scumbag slink over to his little sibling. Sam hardly glances up when Fishing Hat takes a seat on the stool Dean just vacated, just ignores him and tosses back another drink. Leaning on the counter with a jutting elbow, Fishing Hat talks on for a few moments, and Dean’s ready to believe Sam’s drunk enough for the encounter to pass without incident. His ponytail is starting to bob as his head does that intoxicated weaving thing he’s vulnerable to after the umpteenth drink. His shoulders are beginning to slump, too. Sooner rather than later, Fishing Hat will give up. Either that, or Dean’s going to rake the floor with the guy’s _teeth_ , because hell, his stomach hasn’t churned over Sam quite this way since high school.

Then quick, candid, Fishing Hat slides a hand into Sam’s jacket. For a moment, Sam doesn’t seem to notice. Dean tenses up, then nearly busts a blood vessel when he glimpses a slide of thumb over breast.

Sam’s eyes snap wide. Fishing Hat’s back hits the bar with a rattling bang, and a pair of hands throttles him with fury to rival that of hell.

“Don’t fucking _touch me_!”

Dean’s there in a moment, cracking fist into nose with such force that the stupid hat goes tumbling over the bar. Dean snatches the lapels from Sam’s hands and lands another blow, two, three, four, until blood speckles his fist and the ringing in his ears hits white-hot volume.

“Son of a bitch!” he all but screams, then there’s hands on his shoulder, strangers pulling him off. People are starting to turn and ask questions, and the bartender’s reaching for the phone, and Sam’s clinging to the bar looking like he’s about to vomit. It’s time to split.

“C’mon, Sammy.” Dean snatches Sam by the arm and drags him out; he’s pliant under his big brother’s hand, wavering on his feet.

“Coulda handled that,” he mumbles, and Dean’s unsure whether it’s comforting that, even plastered, the brainiac is right. They push into the bracing chill outside, and Dean’s body doesn’t get any cooler. He’s burning, not quite sure why, only that he’s danced this dance before and that the sting across his knuckles is bittersweet.

Sam clings to Dean’s jacket as he tries to get him into the Impala. “Gonna puke,” he mumbles.

Dean pushes Sam’s head down to get him in. “You’re fine.” He rounds the car, gets in and wrenches the keys into the ignition. They peel into the street, a sharp turn that sends Sam slumping over into his lap.

“Hey,” Dean snaps, but it’s too late. Sam may be in the wrong body, but it’s still a gigantor body, and there’s no way he’s moving that bag of bricks without losing control of the car. Huffing, he pushes Sam’s hair out of his face and gives an antagonistic pat to the too-smooth cheek he finds there. “Don’t puke.”

Sam’s lips waver around something like _fuck you_. He’s asleep in minutes.

When they arrive back at the compound, Dean sits in the idling Impala for maybe a few moments too long, staring at the lax face in his lap. Sleep sits gentle on Sam’s brow, glints in the bits of saliva congregated at the corners of his parted lips. He’s ridiculous in the way he lounges, a mess of languid limbs and hair that’s come out of his ponytail. It should be weird, after these last couple of years, after the constant push and pull they’ve endured, being each other’s brothersenemieslifelines. It shouldn’t feel so right to be so close to Sam, not after Sam abandoned him for a year, not after Sam hasn’t fallen asleep on him in ages, not while Sam’s all Freaky-Fridayed and cursed. But it is. It’s good and quiet and really, honestly okay, and Dean doesn’t want to move.

But then Sam shifts, mumbles, and Dean knows it’s time to go.

“Alright, Ghidorah. C’mon.” He squirms out from under Sam’s limp body, guiding his head gently to the leather lest it drop and jar him awake. It takes a few moments, but finally Dean’s able to drag Sam out of the car and drape one lanky arm over his shoulder. Sam leans into him, every bit as heavy as usual, now with more hair to get caught in Dean’s mouth as he tries to direct them: “Those are stairs.” “Dude, you gotta move your feet to walk.” “Okay. Bed. Get down there.”

When Dean guides Sam toward the bed, his drunken fingers uncurl from his brother’s jacket haltingly, but finally, he lays down. Dean manhandles all those excessive limbs onto the blankets, perhaps a bit unsettled by the unfamiliar curves, but not allowing himself to think too hard about it. He pulls off Sam’s jacket and too-big boots, then attempts to get him under the covers, but it’s no good; he’s breathing deep with slumber.

Dean stands back, arms crossed. He sighs. “’Night, Sam.”

He’s just flicking out the light when Sam _screams_. Dean turns on his heel, and hell— he’s thrashing, reaching out. “Sam? _Sam_!” He kneels and suddenly Sam’s clutching at him, nails in his face, eyes blown wide.

“S’calling, Dean!” He says it on an inward breath, sucking and hellish, like something drowning in its own blood. “I can hear it— It _wants_ me— oh, fuck, _fuck_ —” Dean tries to hold him still but he’s thrashing, sluggish yet strong. He can hardly keep the kid down and finally gives up, just letting him convulse. His hands are so tight in Dean’s hair and on his jacket that he thinks something’s going to rip.

“You’re _fine_ ,” Dean barks. “Sam, listen, you’re okay. I’m here.” He clutches Sam’s wrists, feels the pulse thunder against his palm. “ _I’m here_ , Sammy.”

Gasps rattle Sam, quick and uneven. Then slower, deeper puffs of alcohol break over Dean’s face. Sam blinks heavy like his eyelashes are made of lead, then slumps back on a long moan. “Itwantsme,” he slurs.

Dean presses the belly of his wrist against Sam’s forehead, then his cheek to be sure. Kid’s feverish as all hell. He’s reminded of the ravings a year ago, the running away and the unconsciousness and the insanity Sam’s never fully described to him.

“Don’ lettit,” Sam moans. “Don’ lettit get in.”

“I won’t, Sammy, I won’t.” He peels the hair away from Sam’s sweaty forehead. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

An odd look pinches Sam’s nostrils and lips, pulling at his unfocused eyes. A hand lifts, and he seems to be reaching out for Dean, but his fingers tangle instead into the blankets. Dean, in a desperate thought that any other man would call a prayer, hopes that there’s nothing curled up in the kid’s brain that doesn’t belong there except the alcohol.

“Don’ leave me,” Sam whispers, and Dean doesn’t even think twice about swinging his legs onto the bed and wrapping himself around his brother.

“I won’t.”

It’s been ages since they’ve found themselves here. And, well, if the dramatic curves and soft breasts pressed up against him are strange, he’s a big boy and he gets over it. He focuses on the fact that Sam’s still taller than him— little shit— but he’s smaller in ways, the breadth of his shoulders, the size of his hands. One of those hands rests on Dean’s arm, forcing him back to years passed, the last time he let the kid crawl under his arm in bed, sweat-slick and shaking after some unspoken nightmare. 

After that night, he felt the nudges at his elbow or heard the hushed, hopeful “Dean? You awake?” and it had been all, “We’re too old,” or “You’re too big,” which was only half-true; though Sam had shot up into limbs like trees, they would never be too old for that, not really. Just too scared. Too clinging to the facade of internal strength, when really they needed each other, desperately, and were too ashamed to admit that curling up like old times would have been a blessing.

Now something in Dean aches because this is very much the same as that last night. This is the same Sam, even the smell, the day-old clothes and the tang of sweat, though the haze of alcohol is not a page from memory. Still, there's something gratifying about holding Sam safe and close, even if the body’s not the same. Sam is Sam is Sam, and it’s not like this is the worst model so far (he’ll take this over the demon blood and the lack of soul, thanks).

Dean falls asleep thinking that he’s missed this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam is hung-over, and Dean is just hung-up.

Sam hates God for a lot of reasons.

If she were to make a list at this very moment, hangovers would be Public Enemy No 1.

“You gonna live?” Dean asks from the doorway of the darkened bathroom, and Sam can’t be bothered to make a response. Her forehead has struck up quite a friendship with the toilet seat, cold when she first laid it there and now hot with sweat. She shifts, just slightly, so that her ankle isn’t bent funny against the tile, and the minute movement sends a wave of nausea straight up from her toes, roundabout her skull, and back down to the pit of her stomach.

She retches into the toilet, though it’s mostly dry-heaving by now. When the tide of illness pulls out, she notes with a faint bit of thanks that Dean is holding her hair back. She is much less thankful, however, when a glance backwards finds that the look of discomfort didn’t wash off of Dean’s face overnight.

“Gotta get back to researching,” she groans.

Dean scoffs. “Right, ‘cause it’ll be so much easier to get work done if you’re puking your guts up.”

The word _puking_ lands writhing in her belly. She moans. “We gotta.”

“No, we don’t. Puke, rest, then we’ll talk about it.” Dean begins to tie Sam’s hair back, and she whimpers at the small jerks of his inexpert fingers. 

“ _Please_ don’t use the work ‘puke’ again.” 

“Whatever, Princess Puke.” Dean chuckles over his own joke, and Sam wishes she had the strength to kick him. 

“I’m not kidding about the research, Dean. I need…” She pauses to steel herself against a squirm in her stomach. “I need to start checking local libraries and hitting up other hunters. See if… see if somebody knows something.”

Dean drops onto the rim of the tub, and Sam can’t quite see his face from this angle, but he seems to be giving her a _look_. One of his bare feet scuffs at the aged tile, then he makes a disapproving sound. “I ain’t lettin’ you go through another day without some proper rigging, man.”

For a moment, Sam is unsure quite what he’s getting at, then Dean makes a gesture toward her chest and— oh. Right. She’d almost forgotten. Breasts are not nearly as exciting when they’re attached to her and not someone she’s looking down at. They were irrelevant in the rush of the hangover, but now that she’s thinking about it, she can admit that after two days, her back is giving complaint. And she doesn’t know much about what they’re supposed to feel like, but she’s fairly sure women would complain a lot more if they always felt like this. A bra would probably fix that. But the thought of going to a store and actually buying one is just— no. 

“Look, I’m all for getting some proper- um, you know.” She can’t talk about lady parts even though she has them. Smooth. “But I don’t know anything about any of that. I’m not going to just walk into some place and try on all the racy bits until I find something that fits. We don’t have time for that.”

Dean’s eyebrows leap. “Didn’t you just live with a chick for a year?” (Shit, can’t he mention it without every pent-up moment of his abandonment angst slipping through? Sam feels bad enough already.) “You should know a little about that stuff.”

“I didn’t go lingerie shopping with her, Dean.”

“I’m not talkin’ about lingerie.” He sounds like he’s pulling one of those grimaces that starts from the tendon in his neck and draws upward. “I’m talkin’ about not having to look at my _brother’s tits_ hanging around all day.”

Sam can’t help the weak laugh that trembles up her throat; it makes her head pulse. “My eyes are up here.”

“Get a damn bra.”

“We’ll see.”

A blessed moment passes without Dean’s color commentary, and Sam is able to relax into the side of the toilet. Slivers of her hair tremble with each breath she takes, slower and steadier until her body is more at peace with itself than it has been since she woke up. It was a surprise to wake up in her own bed, what with her final memories of the night before placing her in the Impala. But she hasn’t questioned it, not even the heavy indent and twisted comforter that spoke of another body next to her overnight, or the smell of Dean lingering on the sheets. He’s been pretty weird about this presto-change-o thing so far, so Sam isn’t going to look too closely at it. But thinking of last night…

“I’m not sure if I should bitch at you or thank you for the completely unnecessary way you defended my honor last night,” she says.

Dean makes a low “tch” sound in his mouth. “Look, you were plastered and I wasn’t gonna let—”

“You overreacted, Dean. I had it taken care of. 'Cause you know what?” Sam turns just a little, and the protest of her aching head is worth it to give Dean a glare. “I can take care of myself, and you know it.”

Unimpressed by her declaration if his expression is any clue, Dean indicates Sam’s entire body with a large gesture. “But now you’re—”

“Just as capable of handling myself, thanks. Boobs or not, it doesn’t matter. I’ve still been hunting for, like, 20 years. So could you maybe get off of that white horse?”

Dean is silent for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is sharp. “Okay. Is this a bitchy chick thing, or just a bitchy Sam thing?”

Sam frowns. “Excuse me?”

“Just yesterday you were all about ‘getting comfortable’ and dealing with it calmly. Then a few minutes ago you’re ready to go to the library with a hangover and without a bra, and now you’re Miss Feminism, gettin’ all up on my ass for beating up a douchebag who totally deserved it.” He leans forward with practiced intimidation, and Sam wonders if he knows he’s doing it. His next words sound like an ultimatum. “Do you want to get this curse cleaned up, or just sit around and talk about it?”

“Look, it’s just—” Sam looses a sharp sigh. “I told you yesterday; I have a feeling this isn’t exactly going to be temporary. It might take us forever to figure out what happened and reverse it, and we might never even fix it. I could be stuck like this forever. And me? _I’m_ cool with it.”

Dean shifts back as if struck. “Sam, how can you be ‘cool’ with—?”

“See? This!” Sam jerks upright, marks that down as a mistake, and eases back into her sad crouch against the toilet. “This is exactly what I’m talking about, Dean. You can’t handle the idea that maybe this isn’t some quick-fix curse. And heaven forbid you acknowledge it’s not a fucking calamity.”

Dean throws his arms in a wide gesture at Sam. “Being body-snatched isn’t a calamity?”

“I’m not _body-snatched_ ,” Sam hisses against the porcelain. “This _is_ my body, Dean.”

“Funny, I don’t remember you ever having tits or—”

“It’s _my body_.” Despite the horrible whirling in her skull, Sam reaches back to grasp her shirt by the collar. She tears it up so Dean can see, too, so he can see what Sam saw the first night of the change: the jagged scar from Jake Talley’s knife, a brand of ownership on her curved back, skin postmarked by the past. 

“This is still me,” Sam says as she crumples back against the toilet, “whether or not you want to believe it. And you know what? Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe that's why feel like I should be fixing this: because ever since I had my first vision, you’ve been treating me like I’m not Sam anymore. Like— like I’m some terrible creature that you have to cure, _then_ I’ll be Sam again. And I know I’ve screwed the pooch and screwed it bad, okay? I’m a fuck-up. We’ve got that covered.” 

She turns her head to escape Dean’s pained look, like he wants to lie and say all that doesn’t matter anymore, but he can't get up the strength for a fib that big. Her eyes slip shut. “You can’t turn me back to who I was before. I’ve changed. I was dangerous and selfish, and then there was hell, and that- well. You know about hell, how that can change somebody. And then all the crap that went wrong with my soul and my head after that… even now that that’s all patched up, you still stare at me like you’re trying to find something you’re not seeing. Like you're looking for the Sam you remember. And now, with my body not even the same, I just can’t help but think, ‘What if I never turn back? Will he keep giving me that look?’”

“That’s bullshit," Dean barks. "I’m not— it’s not like that, Sam. I just want you to get back to normal.”

“But what if this _is_ the new normal, Dean?”

Silence. Then, “Don’t talk like that.”

“Like _what_?” Sam opens her eyes, but can’t turn them on her brother. “Like maybe this will be the curse we can’t break? Maybe this is the time that we don’t fix it? Can you even find it in yourself to admit that my body being like this might not be a big deal?”

“Not a big—?”

“I’m still Sam!” she says, and closes her eyes again when the volume of her own voice produces pain. “I can still hunt, Dean, and we have better things to do than chase after a cure that might not even exist. We should be looking for new jobs.”

Dean scoffs. “You think you can hunt like this? Sam, you’re not half as strong—”

“Is that what this is about? My ‘strength’? How useful I am throwing punches in a fight?” God, she’s starting to feel sick again.

Dean springs to his feet. “That’s not what I said.” 

She turns to him, an awkward twist of her spine. This conversation is entirely to blame if she manages to vomit again. “Then let’s go, Dean. Let’s forget my body and worry about ganking things and getting the gates of hell shut.”

“What if whatever changed you is from hell, genius? If our mystery sonnovabitch gets shoved back in the pit forever, we can’t get it to change you back, can we?” He crosses his arms as if daring her to refute his ironclad logic.

She glowers in reply. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take, Dean, Apparently _I_ care about the safety of humanity more than about having a dick.”

“Sam! This is not about _dicks_. This is about you being safe!”

“Me? Didn’t we just have this conversation? I’m not a _child_! Just because I’m not shaped like a man doesn’t mean I can’t still gank monsters, and it doesn’t mean you can’t trust me—”

“I never said anything about _trust_. I trust you. Hell, I trust you so much, if you wanna get in touch with your feminine side, be my guest! Be a woman. I don’t care!”

“I never said I wanted to be a woman! I’m just saying that you don’t have to freak out about me _not_ being a man, which is—”

“ _The same thing!_ That’s the same thing, Sam!”

“No, Dean, it’s really—” 

A great ringing melody breaks over the walls, resonating into a symphony of echoes that come peeling back around and over each other. Both Winchesters flinch for their knives at the volume of the brief sound, then Sam frowns around her renewed headache and asks, “Doorbell?”

Dean’s posture loosens. “Oh. Right. That would be Charlie.”

Sam straightens up and can’t be bothered about the thunder that rumbles around the inside of her skull when she does so. “ _Charlie_?”

“Yep.” Dean heads through the open door and flicks on the light, much to Sam’s groaning. “I called her this morning because you need someone to show you how to be a chick and not suck at it. Also I know you can’t say no to nice girls, and this nice girl is going to make you go bra shopping. So I win.”

"Ugh."

“Don’t give me that,” Dean calls over his shoulder. “You should be thanking me! I’m bringing you a hot lesbian who thinks you look like Xena, Warrior Princess!”

Sam, halfway to victory in the struggle to her feet, pauses with her hands on the toilet seat. “Why does she think that?” She glances through her hair and sees one of Dean’s shit-eatingest grins.

“’Cause I told her you did. Merry Christmas, bitch. Now come answer the door. I want to see the look on her face when she sees you.”

Finally on her feet, Sam trudges after Dean and wonders if dysfunctional can even _touch_ their relationship this morning. She can only hope having Charlie around won’t complicate things.

Like they could get any more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize for how long it took to get this out, and how short it is! the next few chapters will be much longer, and will contain:
> 
> plot-development  
> bras  
> serious Harry Potter talk  
> Dean being a wing-man  
> LESBIANS
> 
> hopefully i can get it to you guys soon! thanks for your interest! please leave a comment if you're enjoying it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charlie is continually surprised, and Sam does not look like Xena, Warrior Princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone should know that the bra shopping scene is the most fun i've ever had writing anything in my life.

It was 6 AM when Charlie received the phone call from Dean Winchester, the call that started with, “So, remember when you said to let you know if you could ever be of help?” 

She was just about to catch a few Zs before finishing her drive into Topeka. When she stopped at the motel, she had not intended to stay up so late (or early? Isn’t it “early” when it’s the next day?) but those kinds of things happen to her when she has her hands on a good book. Or, as the case would have it, several good books. Several good books about Winchesters. Several good books about Winchesters that concluded with the world’s least satisfying ending. Because seriously, Sam tumbling into hell and Dean going out to struggle through a life without his brother, based on said brother’s last wish? Not cool. Not cool at all. 

Anyway. Dean called her at 6 AM.

Initially she figured it was some kind of freakazoid fangirl dream and she was actually asleep and drooling on her iPad, but as the call’s length and the call’s weirdness began to vary directly, she decided her subconscious wasn't crazy enough for this. So she “oh”ed and “wow”ed and “for real?”ed her way through the call, got directions to their new crib (when he asked why she was already in Kansas, she panicked and said there was a con— shut up, a girl’s got to get her action figures) and headed out the moment she got a Redbull down her gullet.

So now, Charlie is ringing the doorbell on the super cool and super secret bunker the Winchesters apparently call home, and she doesn’t know what she expects. Dean’s exact words were _Xena Warrior Princess_ , and Charlie’s imagination has run with an approximation of that: a smoldering gaze under hair like black velvet, a demeanor of vicious sexiness, a neckline plunging into territory that would make even the men of World of Warcraft blush. Some new, exotic creature.

But the person who opens the door is simply, obviously, still Sam. Her hair is longer and wild, and she’s got curves to spare and _oh wow, breasts_ but other than that, she’s standard Winchester No. 2: tall, a posture made of imposing shoulders, and a squinty expression that flirts between contemplative and put-out. 

“’Sup,” Charlie says faintly, and she’s caught up in Dean’s bright grin as he appears from behind Sam, then in his arms as he embraces her.

“Your highness!” He draws away and claps her on the back.

She grins in return. “Yo, my main handmaiden.”

“It’s good to see you,” says Sam, who hesitates before taking a lurching step closer. Charlie finds herself drawn into the most awkward hug of the century because _hello ladies, I see you’re hanging free!_ Sam seems to realize this a beat too late and lets go, flushed.

Dean raises his eyebrows then clears his throat. “Thanks for coming on such short notice. We owe you one.”

Sam and Charlie say, “Yeah, thank you,” and “Psh, it’s cool,” at the same time. 

Charlie teeters on her feet and adjusts the strap of her bag. “Um. I mean, anything for my boys.” Oh. Shit. “Or girls, or—” Sam cringes at that, so maybe not, “—you feel me, right?” She winces despite herself. Very un-smooth, Charlie.

Sam seems to be trying to smile at her, but it’s not working.

“Well!” Dean disperses the uncomfortable pause with a clap. “You both know why Charlie’s here, so how about you get on that? You got cash, Samantha?”

“I guess. Let me, uh, go grab my wallet.” Sam heads off into the bunker and— oh. 

Wow. 

_I hate to see you leave, Winchester, but I love to watch you go_. Charlie ogles Sam until that fine backside vanishes down the stairs, at which point it becomes alarmingly clear that Dean is watching her watch Sam. Before she can dredge up a valid excuse, he smirks and says, 

“I know, right?”

Oh. Weird, but, “Yeah, for rizzles. Is it completely bitchy to say I hope he doesn’t change back?”

And of course, she was joking (no, really), but the look Dean gives her is terrifying. She’s just beginning to think she’s committed some sort of fatal error when Sam appears again, wallet in hand and wearing a pair of sunglasses.

“Alright, ladies, go have your underwear bonding date or whatever,” Dean says, apparently in lieu of a goodbye. He goes without even turning back at Sam’s huff or Charlie’s “Smell you later?” 

The two of them remain rooted for a moment before Sam sighs and says,

“Well, I guess we should go.”

“Right! Totally.” Charlie stumbles outside after Sam’s long strides; the taller woman groans and puts a hand to her forehead when sunlight hits them. 

“Rough night?” Charlie asks, and Sam groans again.

“Something like that.” 

Once the bunker door is closed behind them, Charlie directs Sam to her car, which they slide into in silence. It is, in fact, several miles down the road before either of them say anything. Occasionally the GPS on Charlie’s phone directs them, and she considers putting on some music, but figures that wouldn’t be kind to Sam’s hangover. Once they hit the highway and the lack of GPS interference makes the silence unbearable, Charlie engages in an epic struggle with herself about how or whether she should bring up the books or Sam’s current girl-ness. 

But she is saved when Sam speaks first, with enthusiasm impressive for someone who probably spent the morning puking. “Did Dean tell you about the Men of Letters?”

Charlie arches a brow. “No. Is it a super secret society of sexist pen pals?”

Sam snorts. “Uh, no. They’re actually this sort of old institution of intellectual hunters, and I guess you didn’t see inside the bunker much, but they’ve got this huge library and— oh, man, you should see it when we get back.” And Sam launches into an account of the dungeon and the shooting range and the bunk rooms and the kitchen and the working telescope and the archives, and Charlie nearly violates three different traffic laws because she is suddenly overcome with the realization that this is what Sam should have been. Assuming the books are true, the person next to her once sat on a full ride to Stanford, and that’s a side of Sam she never would have guessed at. The hunter is nice enough, but— well, a _hunter_. Chopping heads off of Leviathan, wielding guns, chasing ghosts. To think Sam once aspired to take the bar, get a law degree, and fight evil with words and paperwork? That is certainly worthy of shock-induced traffic violations. 

That, and she can’t stop stealing peeks at Sam’s smile. 

She doesn’t think she’s seen the younger Winchester’s smile before, not in earnest. If she has a chance to see those pearly whites and crinkling eyes again, Charlie is seriously not in a hurry for Sam to turn back. Which reminds her—

“Listen, what should I call you?”

Sam’s eyebrows dip behind her sunglasses. “What?”

“Just— I don’t know, pronouns and stuff.” Charlie clears her throat. “Honestly, I’ve been thinking of you as a ‘she,’ ‘cause, you know, it’s kind of hard not to with the hourglass you’ve got goin’ on there, but I wasn’t sure if you’d rather me call you a ‘he’ since that’s what you technically are, or if you’re more into that plural stuff. Or, I dunno, maybe you wanna get crazy and go by _Huntress Masculum_ or—”

“You can call me a ‘she,’” Sam interjects, and the discomfort in her tone is definitely not what Charlie was going for. “Just…” She huffs through her nose. “I’m not a woman, okay? My body is at the moment, which is— I dunno. Isn’t a bad thing. Not that I don’t want to change back, just… it’s not that different. I mean, I like this body, and it’s a female body, so I don’t care if you look at it and think ‘she.’”

Charlie purses her lips and glances at the rear-view mirror, just to have an excuse not to look at her passenger. “You sure? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

The sound Sam makes then is one part scoff, two parts sarcastic laugh, and probably concocted very carefully over years of dealing with Dean. “Look, as long as you remember I’m still me, and you don’t start treating me like a freakin’ damsel? I really don’t care. Honestly…” Her mouth presses into a flat line, as if she fears her next words escaping. “I’ve been thinking of myself as a ‘she,’ and it doesn’t feel wrong. I mean, again: not a woman, but…” She slides a hand beneath the bridge of her sunglasses to pinch at her nose, and her forehead pulls into crumpled furrows. “God, that doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

Charlie shrugs. “Does it make sense to you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then, hey: respect. Since your life is basically _Buffy_ meets _Touched By An Angel_ with a side of _Tootsie_ , having yourself figured out in your own head is pretty damn good.” Before it can quite sink in that she just compared a seasoned monster-slayer to _Tootsie_ , which is, wow, a faux pas, Charlie jabbers on: “Speaking of angels, did you guys rule out heavenly shenanigans on this whole you-not-being-a-dude thing?”

Sam lifts her sunglasses. “How do you know about angels?”

Whoops. Way to show your cards, Bradbury.

“Well, um, after we split last time, I dug into all things supernatural. I'm a wee bit obsessive. If ‘wee bit’ means completely. I also found this series of books, by a Carver Edlund?” Sam’s eyes go wide, and Charlie files that under _probably not awesome_. “Those books didn’t really… happen, did they?”

Sam sighs and drops her sunglasses.

Charlie finds it suddenly very easy to keep her eyes on the road. “Wow. That is some meta madness. But thanks for saving the world and everything. Sorry you have zero luck with the ladies.” The moment she’s said it she feels kind of bad, but not really, because she does mean it. 

There’s another sigh from Sam’s side of the car. “I’m going to find every copy of those books, and I’m going to salt them, and I’m going to burn them.”

Ooh. Cringe. “Actually, they’re online now. So good luck with that.”

Sam slumps a bit, says, “Of course,” then is quiet. 

The GPS peeps, “ _Recalculating_!” 

Charlie glances in her rear-view mirror and watches her exit grow smaller. Whoops. She looks to her phone, and yep— she just added 15 minutes onto the trip. Wow, GPS lady, way to let a sister down. Charlie’s not sure if the automated voice didn’t warn her of her turn, or if she just completely missed it, but— “Blarg,” she says out loud.

“What?” Sam asks.

Triple blarg. “Um, I just wanted to know what lady-like attire we’re commandeering.” Dean had only mentioned unmentionables, after all, and bras do not a wardrobe make.

Sam nods. “Right, right. Yeah. Well, I need a, uh.”

Charlie glances sidelong. “A…?”

“You know.” Sam gives a gesture that could mean anything from _water aerobics_ to _I am wearing all of the magic rings at once and my hand is getting kind of tired_.

“A bra?” Charlie guesses. “It’s called a bra.”

“Right. I know what it’s called.” Sam frowns then says, probably just to prove herself, “A bra.”

Charlie tries not to giggle as she follows the GPS’s direction around the designated U-turn. “Anything else?”

“I don’t think… actually,” Sam’s tone brightens and her cheeks go a little red, “some underwear that fits would be nice.”

Fitting underwear. Oh no. Don’t imagine that, Charlie. Don’t do it. “Yeah! Sure. Definitely.” Great with the nonchalant tone, there. Real smooth. “But we might have to go to a for-real underwear store and get you measured and everything.” 

Sam looks a bit spooked at that, so Charlie tries to elaborate: “If you were closer to my size, we could probably just hit up any old Walmart and guess, but since you’re so…” Tall? Busty? Curvaceous? “…Sam-ish, I wouldn’t know anything about buying for you, and it’s best to know for sure when it’s bras and stuff. I mean, you’re forking over the cash, so you might as well be comfy, right?”

Sam is respectfully quiet for a moment as Charlie merges onto the highway, then offers only a meager, “I guess so.”

“What about getting you some nice threads, too? I could totally see you in—”

“Just the basics,” Sam says. “We don’t need to waste any money.”

“Getting you some clothes that actually fit wouldn’t be a waste. Just think what would happen if you had to hunt in what you’re wearing! Wardrobe malfunction during an exorcism? Way too Marylin Manson.”

Sam chuckles at that, and Charlie awards herself about 26 points. She’s still got it.

“Alright,” Sam concedes, “maybe one set of clothes. But nothing extra.”

Charlie allows herself a smirk of satisfaction as she pulls onto the correct exit. “Sure. Nothing extra.”

She will totally get Sam something extra. Probably a dress.

Definitely a dress.

 

———

 

When they arrive at the mall, Charlie attempts to direct Sam into Victoria’s Secret, but receives a mortified look and a firm “No,” for her efforts. They go instead into a franchise neither of them have ever heard of, which is cheaper but significantly less sexy. Sam seems quite pleased with this. Charlie, maybe not as much.

Upon entering, they are immediately accosted by a woman in a tight blouse and a pencil skirt who wields a tape measure and a grin so big it cannot possibly be real. Charlie casts a glance at Sam, who looks like she’d feel a lot better after tossing some holy water on the woman, just to be sure.

“Ladies!” the woman says. “Did you know that eighty-five percent of women are wearing the wrong size of bra? Getting fitted for your _true size_ can help in many ways, including enhancing the shape of the breast, avoiding the stretch of throat and face tissue, and keeping that circulation going!” 

Charlie can just make out Sam’s eyes going wide in apparent terror behind the sunglasses. She wonders if she could make a convincing argument for Victoria’s Secret now.

At their silence, the woman’s upper lip twitches, and her smile tugs on the tendons in her neck. Her eyes flick to Sam’s chest. “You _are_ here for a fitting, aren’t you?” Eyes back to Sam’s face. The tendons appear ready to snap. “ _Aren’t you_?”

“Yes!” Charlie says, and steps between the two. “Yep, got to get the girls taken care of.”

Sam makes a sound of pain behind her.

“Good, then!” The woman— her name plate reads ‘Kim’— relaxes, tendons normal and smile not quite as horrifying. “This way!” She proceeds to usher Sam toward one of many cutesy vanity screens set up in the back of the shop, and Sam throws a look over her shoulder that says, _Kill me_.

Charlie attempts her most reassuring smile and flashes a double thumbs-up. “I’ll be in the getaway car. Have fun?”

But her send-off isn’t quite necessary; Sam sticks out from behind the screen from the mouth up, and damn it if Charlie can’t break their awkward eye-contact, even as Sam takes off her shirt at Smiley Kim’s instruction. 

“Hold still,” says Kim from somewhere behind the screen. Sam jumps, then inherits a furrowed brow and a tight mouth as she is apparently measured. She’s stock-still until Kim asks, 

“What size have you been wearing?”

Sam’s mouth goes a little slack and she turns to Charlie, who can only shrug helplessly. 

Sam says, “Uh, I’ve been wearing a C.”

Though she considers herself a supportive person, Charlie has no guilt about turning around and snorting loudly into her hand.

Kim gasps. “Oh, my! That’s far too small. It’s a wonder I don’t see any damage here. Did you know that wearing the incorrect cup size can harm mammary glands and lump breast tissue towards the arm pits?”

“That’s fascinating,” Sam says, but it sounds a lot like _I’m going to choke you with that tape measure_.

“You actually have some of the nicest breast tissue I’ve seen on a woman your age,” Kim continues. Sam goes entirely red and Charlie gets something the size of a goldfish stuck in her throat. “It’s almost like they’re brand new. Do you moisturize?”

“Am I all measured?” Sam’s voice comes strained, and her upper lip curls slightly, nostrils flared. (Charlie’s pretty sure bulls do that before they gore someone.)

Kim appears from behind the partition with that same uncomfortable grin. “Yes, all measured! I’ll find some potential fits for you and bring them over.”

“Thank you,” Charlie says, because she’s pretty sure Sam will start swearing if she opens her mouth. Once she’s sure Kim is out of earshot, she saunters up to the screen and raises one eyebrow, pasting on her most mischievous little smile. “So, I heard your breast tissue brings all the boys to the yard.”

Sam glowers. “Dean always says humans are the scariest thing out there.” She pulls her shirt back over her head, grimacing in the direction Kim went. “Humans, man.”

“Aw, come on. On a scale of one to Leviathan, she’s chomper chow. She’s no Gilda the totally bangable fairy, though.” Charlie offers up a wistful little sigh in honor of the best lay she never had. _Fairy_ , man.

“Yeah,” Sam says with a zero-sympathy kind of snort, “I’m pretty sure this one was trying to feel me up.”

“No way.”

“I’m not kidding.” Sam gives a little shiver, and though she can’t see them, Charlie can imagine perfectly the tense and give of those broad shoulders. “She was—”

“Here we are! I’ve selected a broad variety for your needs.”

Both women look to Kim, who has returned with an armful of bras. She moves to join Sam behind the screen again, but Charlie steps forward at the ready.

“Actually,” she says, “how about I help my buddy with those?” She leans in close to whisper, “She’s a little embarrassed getting a real fitting, you know. Once a lady gets comfortable in those C cups, it’s a scary new world upgrading.”

Kim gives a very serious nod, as if that was not a complete load of steaming bullshit. “Of course,” she whispers back and deposits the load of unmentionables into Charlie’s arms. “I’ll be behind the front desk if you two need any assistance.”

With a smile, Charlie hefts the awkward load. “Way to help a sister out. You’re a life-saver.”

A final Cheshire grin, and Kim leaves them at peace. When Charlie turns, she is met with Sam’s hard brow and very unamused mouth.

“Scary new world,” Sam repeats, deadpan.

Charlie shrugs and rounds the partition to dump the bras at Sam’s feet. “She left, didn’t she?”

Sam apparently can’t argue with that, just sighs and grabs a bra from the pile. “Yeah, sure. You wanna wait while I try these?”

“Will do,” says Charlie, and steps back to the other side of the screen. She turns her back politely and hears Sam pulling her shirt off again, then decides that it’s probably best to distract herself right now. The Moondor forum provides the perfect escape, where she’s greeted as “My Queen” by the other users and immediately dragged into a debate about whether the Warriors of Yesteryear will be worthy allies in the upcoming battle. She’s just banished a few naysayers to the village idiot thread and begun to compile a bulleted list of pros and cons for her argument when Sam’s voice comes pitchy and indignant from behind her:

“How the hell do you get this thing on?”

She looks up from her phone only to see her shopping partner with her sunglasses askew, one arm stuck at an odd angle, and the eyes of a half-drowned puppy.

She’s not sure whether to laugh or have an emotional crisis. “You got to clasp it in the front—”

“How do I get my arms through?”

Phone forgotten, Charlie frowns. “Just… put them through?”

“Then how do I get it onto my chest?”

“What are you even—?” Actually, Charlie doesn’t want to know. “Wait, just stop. Take it off. Start over.”

Sam sighs like she’s the president and someone has just asked her if the country should go to war, but takes the bra off.

“Okay. Without putting your arms in, get it on yourself backwards. Like, clasp it in the front.”

“Alright,” Sam grumbles, and spends several moments looking down and producing fidgety sounds from behind the screen. “Okay, think I got it.”

“Shiny. Now turn it the right way, get everything situated, and stick your arms in.”

Sam frowns. “I don’t see—”

“Turn it the right way first,” Charlie interjects, and Sam just grumbles. Charlie glances back to her phone.

A second later, Sam gives a breathy little, “Oh.”

“Got it on?”

Sam swallows and is noticeably red. “Yeah.”

That should not make Charlie’s heart palpitate, but it totally does. “Does it fit?”

“I think so.”

“Tubular,” Charlie says, and sounds way too freakin’ much like she’s about to swoon. “Let the council pass judgment.” 

Charlie turns the corner, and her face goes hot. The idea of shopping for bras with a beautiful lady was, of course, exciting in theory, but when the beautiful lady is a completely off-limits actual _dude_ , it’s 110 percent alarming to see her shirtless and in a piece of lingerie that turns her already generous chest into a bounty prepared for a freaking porno.

After she has taken a moment to choke, Charlie says, “You know that for a chest your size, bras are supposed to keep them in, not shove them out, right?” Sam looks like she wants to crawl inside herself at that, so Charlie adds, “Plus you are a total warrior, dude, and that armor does not give sufficient coverage.”

God, Sam’s pouting lower lip is a sin. “Looked right to me.”

“What kind of ladies have you been—?” Nope, best not broach that; if the books taught her anything, it’s that Sam’s love life should probably never be examined in detail. Ever. Plus now she’s wondering if demons are the thong type or the panties type, so it’s time to move it along. 

“Here, try this.” She snatches a plain under-wire number in a larger cup size and tosses it at her very flushed shopping partner. 

“Right,” Sam mumbles. 

Charlie takes her leave only to be called back a few moments later, and finds a Sam who looks just as lovely but significantly less like a porn star.

She gives her the thumbs-up. “Very respectable. Now for undies.”

Explaining the pros and cons of different styles of women’s underwear to someone who was the boxer-brief type two days ago is not nearly as uncomfortable as Charlie thought it would be, though Sam’s schoolish response to being lectured probably has something to do with it. Eventually the boy shorts style wins out, which should have been a given. Charlie heads over to the counter and manages to commandeer the tape measure while Creepy Kim isn’t looking, and once Sam has measured herself, they select a package in the appropriate size.

Sam stands there with her new unmentionables looking like Dean put scratching powder in her pants again (and Charlie feels so cool for knowing that happened) before it’s impossible not to take pity on her.

“You want me to do the honors?” Charlie asks.

The tension leaves Sam’s frame. She forks over the clothes and her wallet and says, “ _Please_.” 

So that’s how Charlie ends up at the counter buying a bra and underwear for the man who once cast himself into hell with the devil to stop the apocalypse. Her purchase comes to $39.62.

Kim gives her an especially creepy grin and a chipper, “Come back and see us soon!”

“I sincerely hope I won’t,” Charlie replies, smiling back.

When they leave, their first stop is the closest bathroom, where Sam changes into her purchases and comes out with a sigh and the look of a tomboy rather than someone who recently burned all of her bras in a fit of misandrist rage. Charlie approves.

They move on next to pants, which are hard to find in the correct combination of long enough, functional enough and cute enough on Sam’s butt (the third criteria is Charlie’s doing). Sam herself doesn’t seem to notice style at all beyond several questions about why the hell all the pockets are so tiny. One particular pair is treated with a look of despair and, “I couldn’t even fit a hex bag in these. Not even the shitty little ones that only ward off things below a 5 on the EMF.”

Once they find an acceptable pair of jeans, the rest of the trip is fairly painless. Charlie stands back as Sam chooses a few layers of profession-appropriate tops, which are unflattering but, admittedly, very practical. When they pass by the dresses, Charlie grabs a short, summery one and gives a thumbs-up and a grin. Sam doesn’t even look at her, just grumbles and continues to walk. She does manage to slip by with a package of brightly colored scrunchies, though, and works on getting them into Sam’s jungle of hair as they cross the parking lot to the car.

“Are you pleased with your purchases, sir?” Charlie asks as she opens the trunk.

Sam tosses in the bags and lets slip a smile. “Yeah, I guess so.” They round the car and slide into their respective seats. After a moment spent fiddling with the sunglasses that found their way back onto her face in the blaze of the parking lot, Sam says, “Thanks for this.”

Charlie’s chest goes simultaneously fuzzy and light, and she has to quell the urge to squeal as she starts the car. “Hey, I said if you ever need me.”

“I mean it, though. Things have been…” Sam looks down, shoulders slumped. “Yeah. I mean, it’s been kinda crappy between me and Dean lately, so having somebody to be with besides him who I don’t have to worry about acting normal with or keeping secrets from… it’s good.” She casts Charlie a soft, private sort of grin, and Charlie is pretty sure the feeling in her chest is made out of bunnies, puppies and kittens. 

“You’re welcome,” she says, and wishes those words could cover it.

They go quiet as Charlie pulls onto the highway, but it’s not like it was on the way in. This is a gentle silence, a symbiosis of acceptance. Sam gazes out her window as the retail sprawl trickles out into open fields and distant housing developments. Charlie keeps her eyes forward and squints against the sun slicing through the windshield. Wordlessly Sam removes her sunglasses and offers them; Charlie hesitates only a moment before accepting with a nod of thanks. Sam smiles and tips her head back against her chair, eyes closed.

Then Charlie has an important thought and finds herself unable to stop from ruining the quiet: “So, Dean seems pissed about you being in a chick body.”

Sam’s brow furrows, but her eyes don’t open. “I guess. Kind of. Not really, though. It’s—” Huff. “Well. Yeah.”

“Then why was he so interested in you hopping on the bra train? Wouldn’t he be all,” she drops her voice to its lowest possible octave, “‘Be a man! Go shirtless and wear bear pelts!’”

Sam snorts. “I think he’s probably got it in his head that as long as my body is this way, he’s gotta treat me like some kind of damsel. Be a gentleman or something. And I guess that requires me dressing the right way. I don’t know. Maybe it’s…” she trails off.

“Hulk-sized momma issues?” Charlie suggests before thinking. Oh, crap. “Shit, Sam, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring that up.” 

No response. Charlie glances over at the passenger’s seat, afraid to see a back turned to her. Instead, Sam is slumped into the window, eyes half-open and rolled upward. She’s not moving. Not even breathing.

“Sam!” Charlie slaps one hand onto Sam and shakes her, but nothing happens. Heart throbbing, she cuts through two lanes of traffic and throws the car into park on the shoulder. She unbuckles her seatbelt, climbs over to Sam’s side of the car. “Sam! Wake up, please—” She grabs Sam by the arms and jostles her as hard as she can. No response. “ _Sam!_ ” She lands a slap to one slack cheek. 

Nothing.

“Oh shit, oh shit, ohshitohshit _ohshit_.” She fumbles with her phone, dials a 9, a 1—

Sam gasps with her whole body, a single sinuous lurch that knocks Charlie back against the dashboard. They stare at each other, the smaller woman paralyzed and the larger one groping at the insides of the car, mouth slack and eyes wide, as if she doesn’t know where she is. Then she sees Charlie— really sees her, lingers, focuses— and deflates with a long, shaking sigh.

“Sam, what- what the hell? Are you okay?” 

Sam hefts herself up in the seat, then rakes both hands through her bangs, disheveling her ponytail. “Don’t— uhm.” She wraps a long, callused hand over Charlie’s phone and shakes her head. Gasps a little. Closes her eyes. “Don’t call anybody. I’m fine.”

“Fine? Do I look like your bother? Don’t tell me you’re fine. That’s not gonna work on me.” Because Charlie is seriously, honestly freaked out right now. This could be anything. The Devil calling, demon blood, Sam’s brain turning to mush— holy shit this guy has bad luck— “What happened?”

“It’s not as bad as it seems. Look, could you—?” Sam clears her throat and shifts her legs, at which point Charlie remembers whose lap she is sitting in. She crawls back to the driver's seat with a muttered apology, and Sam puts a hand to her forehead in response. “We can get back on the road. I’m good.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, let’s just—’” Sam lifts herself slightly to shift in her seat, a big movement of long arms. “Let’s get going.”

Charlie murmurs, “Alright,” and pulls back into traffic. “You gonna tell me what that was?”

“It’s just this weird flashing thing I’ve been having since I turned into a chick. I think whatever did this to me might be trying to tell me something… Last time it said, _Come to me_.” She punctuates the statement with a slight shiver.

Charlie tries to catch a glimpse of those troubled eyes in the mirror. “And this time?”

“Just the same thing again, then it said, _I want you_. And…” she pauses to pinch at her furrowed temple. “I think it was trying to show me where it wants me. Last time there was nothing but emptiness, but this time I saw… a door.”

If that isn’t fucking creepy, Charlie doesn’t know what is. “The door to Narnia?” she hazards, because that would be kind of nice.

Sam doesn’t even acknowledge her attempt at levity. “Just this regular old door, blue paint and a lot of ivy on the frame. And a mat in front of it that said _Wipe your paws_.”

“Oh.” She wonders suddenly if hellhounds have to wipe the blood off their feet before retreating to wherever they’ve come from. Or if they have feet.

“You can’t tell Dean about this,” Sam says.

Charlie raises her eyebrows. “Uh, this is kind of need-to-know, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, and he doesn’t need to know.” Charlie frowns at that, and Sam sighs heavily. “I don’t think these flashes are dangerous, and telling Dean I had another one is just going to make him worry. He’s pissed enough about this as it is. He doesn’t need more to think about, you know?”

“I guess,” Charlie says.

“Just… don’t tell him.”

“I won’t.”

 

———

 

“Sam, I can’t believe you were gonna keep this from me!”

Sam, just returned from changing into her new clothes, stands stock-still in the library doorway. Dean looms opposite her with his stance bowed by what is probably some kind of subconscious alpha-male display, and Charlie hangs a good ten feet back, out of the line of fire. She really doesn’t want to get between them.

This does not stop Sam’s gut-curdling glare from hitting her square in the face. She hisses, “You said you wouldn’t tell.”

Not to be pulled into this any further, Charlie throws her hands up in surrender. “Dude, I’ve seen what happens when you guys keep things from each other. That’s mega no bueno.”

Dean frowns at that and glances over his shoulder at Charlie. “You’ve _seen_?”

“She read Chuck’s books,” Sam snaps, to which Dean gives an eye roll so extravagant it’s shocking he doesn’t strain something.

“Then at least _someone_ learned from the past,” he says, voice gruff. “You can’t keep hiding shit like this from me, Sam, not when it’s this serious.”

Sam’s posture does this odd thing between curling inward and bulking out, like she can’t decide between the fetal position and going in for the kill. “I just didn’t want you to freak! It’s not that bad, and this is only the second one I’ve had—” 

“Third.” Dean’s forceful tone wavers.

Sam’s face goes loose. “What?” 

“This is the third one. You had one last night.”

“I don’t remember that.” 

“You were hammered, Sam. Scared the fuck outta me.” Dean shifts on his feet, wipes his face from the temples downward. “I thought you were just asleep, but I guess you checked out again, and when you woke up you were shaking and yelling and talking about how somethin’ was comin’ for you. Like I said: this is serious shit.” 

“I didn’t know that happened,” Sam murmurs.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and Charlie can just hear the unspoken, _That’s no excuse_. But Dean seems to be done with that part of the conversation, giving Sam a meaningful look before turning to pour himself some liquor. “Look, while you chicks were out, I was down in the dungeon and I found a bunch of files and big-ass books on different types of demons. Figure we should sort through all that before we risk getting other hunters involved.”

Sam, hands pocketed and shoulders limp, shrugs. “Yeah, okay. Sounds good.” Charlie is left wondering what has to be going on in that sad head of Sam’s for her to respond to _big-ass demon books_ with such slim enthusiasm. 

Whatever it is seems to have dispelled by the time they actually meet said big-ass books, as Sam grows more sure and light-footed with every box she lugs by. Dean treats the material as more of a burden, grumbling about its weight and the precarious stacks of loose papers on the top. Charlie, for her part, stands in awe of the dungeon and decides that no home she ever owns will be complete without one. (When she tries to pick up the demon shackles, Dean approaches her, removes the sigiled collar from her hands and says, “No.”)

Once all of the material is upstairs, they set about sorting through it for clarity’s sake, separating yellowing scraps from pristinely written notes from dusty tomes. Then they divvy up their respective sections, Dean pours Charlie a drink, and thus begins her first real hunter research session.

It sucks. Like, _Twilight_ saga, third Spider-Man movie, Harry Potter _My Immortal_ fanfiction sucks.

Sam’s situation is mysterious enough and many of the notes are general enough that the number of false leads they find is up into the 30s within a few hours. They have to ask Sam a lot of questions— “Have you been sensing presences?” “Seeing hallucinations while otherwise fully conscious?” “Smelling sulfur or ozone?”— to which she answers in the negative. All they have to go on are her change of form and the three isolated visions so far. Since they know Sam gave no consent and asked no demonic favors, they can rule out many of the nastier possibilities; somehow, that doesn’t comfort Charlie any as she scans page upon page of chilling entries and recalls the loll of Sam’s eyes in the car.

She thinks she understands why Dean looks so bristled.

It has been six hours and Charlie has just started to fall asleep on a volume that smells of old cologne when Sam says,

“This is it. I found it!” Her grin is all lit up, dimples and pinched, glittering eyes, and if Charlie’s heart flutters a little, it’s just because she’s excited the research is finally over. 

“Alright,” says Dean, shoving aside the stack of notes he’d been half-asleep on, “care to share with the class?”

“It’s a sex demon.”

Charlie coughs on her drink. “Like a Succubus?” The Winchesters blink at her for an uncomfortable moment before she clears her throat. “They’re a, uh, big thing on the internet.”

Dean adopts a look of interest but Sam plows on: “Yes, actually. Apparently they’re what happens when a demon and a siren have kids. It says here: _The Succubus is born into a flesh body and has the ability to shapeshift like the siren, but like the demon, can make deals for extravagant sexual favors in return for ownership of the victim’s soul_.”

Dean chuckles into his drink. “Hookers from hell.”

Ignoring that, Sam moves on. “ _They are known to commit sexual assault for recreation, and will often change a potential victim’s appearance as means of marking their territory. They will then beckon the victim using their Siren song, an empathic signal which uses voices and images_.”

“That explains you,” Charlie murmurs.

Dean frowns. “So you’ve got a sex demon jonesing to make you its bitch?”

Sitting back in her chair, Sam sighs. “Apparently.”

“It say how to ward against ‘em?”

“Looks they’re affected by Devil’s Traps, holy water, and silver.”

“Gankable?”

Sam hums a noise of consideration as she slides her finger down the page. “Uh… yeah, here we go. _The Succubus can be killed by a blade of silver that has been blessed by a celibate priest, dirtied with acacia ashes, washed in holy water, and_ —” Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.”

“What?”

“… _and dipped in the blood of the succubus’s victim and the victim's lover, drawn in the moments after true love’s embrace_.” She looks up at Dean like she’s just been told the cure for her condition is a buzz cut.

As he rises from his seat, Dean grimaces over the words, “ _True love’s embrace_.” A look of consideration, then, “That mean what I think?”

There’s a funny shift from Sam’s shoulders. “Judging by the illustration here, I’m going to say yes.”

Charlie and Dean lean simultaneously in on either side of Sam for a glimpse at the picture in question; Dean lets loose a low whistle. “Damn, they’re flexible. So, what’s this mean? Should I order you an escort?”

Sam pulls a look of long-suffering. “Um, no. I think ‘true love’ means…” She sighs. “You know. _True love_.”

Heat rises to Charlie’s cheeks, and she’s sure she imagines it, but behind the temple of her too-long hair, Sam seems awfully intent on avoiding her eyes.

Dean crosses his arms and takes a seat on the tabletop. “Okay, so, we need somebody you’re into. Let’s pay that Amelia chick a visit.”

“Amelia?” Charlie repeats, perhaps a bit too quick and high, but it’s lost in the dense sound of Sam slamming the book shut.

“No!” Sam barks, a flinch to Charlie’s back. “We’re not dragging her into this.”

“So what, then, Sam? We sit around and wait for you to get starry-eyed over somebody?”

“I don’t know, but Amelia has a normal life and we’re not going to wreck it with our monster crap. We’ll just have to find another victim.”

Dean’s on his feet, expression hard. “We’ve been doing this for how many years and we’re just now hearing about this Succubus bitch? It’s low-radar and crafty. It hit _us_ and we didn’t even see it. What makes you think it’s gonna be easy to find somebody it’s already fucked? If they survived the damn thing, you think they’re ever gonna mention it again?”

“Well, we might—” A huff, then Sam drills Dean with a look straight in the eyes, strong and calm and tense around the nostrils, “—we might not be able to kill this one, Dean. We might have to settle for trapping it and forcing it to turn me back.”

Both Charlie and Dean frown at that, though certainly for different reasons. Charlie casts her gaze down at her hands and scoffs low in the privacy of her mouth. Of course Sam wants to go back. She— _he_ — was never going to stay like this.

Then Sam adds, “If it can turn me back at all.”

There’s a moment of silence, taunt with throats poised on the cusp of speaking. Sam won’t lift her head, and Charlie would be staring at her feet, too, if Dean was giving her a look that fierce. One of his fists hangs white-knuckled and half-clenched; there’s a tick going on his temple. He bites out, “It’s gonna change you back, Sam, and then we’re gonna kill it. I don’t want some demon out there that wants to date rape you.” He pauses, laughs with a squint of eyes and a bitterness of tone, then asks, “What is it with the host of hell trying to get inside you, anyway?”

Sam jerks up, looks mortified at that. “I— I don’t—” She turns away with a sharp tsk, then plants her hands on her knees and shoves to her feet. “We can always dispatch it, I guess. Chop it up and put the pieces in separate tanks of holy water or something.”

Images of fishbowls filled with fingers leap to Charlie’s mind and she does her best not to let on that this whole demon thing still scares the bejesus out of her. “That’ll work?”

“After the Leviathan, I’m open to anything,” Sam says.

“Except going to Amelia, but I guess that doesn’t count ‘cause it’s the easiest answer.” Dean drops that like so much dead flesh.

Sam’s expression goes hard, and Charlie remembers, unbidden, the scene from book 39 when Sam decapitated a vampire with his bare hands and a length of barbed wire.

“You think it would really work to go to my ex’s and say, ‘Hey, I know I’m magically not a man anymore, but would you forget that for a minute and have sex with me so I can use our blood to kill a demon?’ Yeah, no. I said she’s staying out of it, Dean.”

With a histrionic shrug, the older Winchester shoves off the table and makes for the door. “Whatever. I’m gonna go take care of the rest of the ganking ingredients. If you figure out some way to get the blood, call me.” He snatches his coat from a peg by the stairs, tromps up to the door, and slams it behind him.

Sam stands still and strong in the middle of the floor for a long moment, then collapses back into her chair, face in her hands. “Fuck,” she says.

Charlie couldn’t agree more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well golly, this thing is shaping up to be quite a bit longer than i anticipated! this chapter grew so much that i decided to chop it in half, so you guys get to wait a little longer for the lesbians. sorry! in any case, stay tuned and please comment if you're enjoying it!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charlie gets in over her head, and Dean is a damn fine wing man.

“Can I braid your hair?”

The moment Charlie asks it, she flushes hot. Sure, it’s getting on her nerves to watch those kinked brown locks tumble onto open books and over that irritated brow and into those intent eyes, but did she really just ask _Sam Winchester_ if she could—?

“Sure,” Sam says.

Charlie’s mouth may hang open. Just a tad. “For serious?”

Reassessment quirks fleeting over Sam’s fine mouth, then she shrugs and shuts the book she’s been in. “Yeah. Why not?” She approaches Charlie with her arms heavy at her sides, one weighted further by the book. “Where should I...?”

“Oh, uh.” Charlie turns her chair and scoots it back, sending the scrape of legs echoing up the walls. “Do you mind sitting on the floor? Or you could sit in a chair and I could stand—”

“No, it’s cool,” Sam interjects, and sinks down to crossed legs in front of Charlie. Book opened in her lap, she scoots until her back rests on the lip of the chair and Charlie’s knees bracket her shoulders. If she were to lean her head back, it would be against Charlie’s stomach.

Several heartbeats go forgotten. Charlie may even miss a breath. 

That’s new. 

She shoves it down.

“Ever had this fine weave braided before?” she asks, and internally applauds the smoothness of her own tone.

Sam chuckles. “No, but people have threatened. It doesn’t hurt or anything, right?”

“Shouldn’t,” Charlie says as she begins to comb the mess before her into sections. Frowning, she adds, “if you’ve been brushing.”

“I don’t usually have to brush.”

“Well then,” she rakes her fingers through a nest of half-formed knots and ignores the resulting grunt, “you deserve a little pain, Princess Rapunzel.”

“Thanks, _Dean_.” The little twist of Sam’s face looks odd from this angle, a protrusion of wrinkled brow and soft lower lip. 

Charlie winces. “Oh, God. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant.” Sam shrugs one-shouldered. “Don’t be.”

A few moments languish on in silence, broken only by the occasional page-turn and the rustle of fingers in hair. Sam seems very intent on her book, a thick volume she’s been combing for the past 30 minutes for any mentions of Succubi. Occasionally she pulls a sticky note from her pocket and marks a page, but doesn’t say anything about her findings to Charlie. Marking for Dean, perhaps. Whatever the case, she’s quite lost in her little research world, and Charlie doubts she notices that she has slumped in such a way that Charlie can now feel the full press of a plush breast against her leg.

It’s becoming somewhat of a distraction.

Okay, scratch somewhat. It’s a big damn distraction, and not a welcome one. It brings with it a lot of twisty-turny, sticky feelings. She has been very close to Sam before, both when he was himself and since he his body has changed, and she hasn’t felt quite like this. Sure, she appreciates the lady-like aesthetics, but she could also appreciate Sam’s looks as a man. This is more than appreciation. Definitely more. This is—

No. No way. She knows what getting involved with a Winchester would get her: heartbreak, trauma, possibly death. 

Just as she thinks she’s going to have to move her leg away awkwardly or say something about it, Sam straightens up and says,

“This is so weird.”

Charlie’s eyebrows raise. “Which part?”

“Well— you and me, for one thing.” Sam gives an amused huff, like Charlie being here with her is some sort of unexpected joke.

“Why is that weird?”

“You've just kind of been Dean's friend, you know? I don't know when he became the social one.”

Has she really thought Charlie was only friends with Dean? “Hey, you’ve always been nice to me. You fought for the kingdom of Moons. And you gave the world’s best _Harry Potter_ -related breaking and entering pep-talk.”

Sam chuckles. “Oh, man. I almost forgot about that.”

How could _anybody_ forget that? “Dude, that was the best. But when does a busy hunter like you have time to read _Harry Potter_ , anyway?”

A long moment passes over Sam’s silence, and just when Charlie thinks she won’t get an answer, the hunter closes her book and sighs.

“You know, I didn't actually read it until Stanford.”

A small noise of surprise slips unguarded from Charlie’s lips.

Sam bats her disbelief away with a gesture. “I know, I know. But as a kid, my leisure time was always... you know, sharpening knives, melting bullets. I knew I liked reading, but it never occurred to me to pick up anything outside of books on monsters and what they assigned at school.” She runs her thumb slow and careful over the weathered volume in her lap. “I got to Stanford and everybody else had these good memories, and they were sad their childhood was over, and I realized... I never really had one. I mean, I always knew I was missing something, but actually hearing about how it was for other people hit me pretty hard. _Harry Potter_ was one of the things they talked about, so I thought, ‘Hey, if I’m gonna be normal, I guess that’s a good place to start.’

“I kept it a secret, too, read ‘em after Jess was sleeping, that kind of thing. That was stupid of me, ‘cause she really wouldn’t have minded. But there I was, twenty years old, reading kids' books because I thought maybe I’d find leftover crumbs of somebody else’s good childhood in there, and that would sustain me.” She pauses, staring down at her hands on the book. “Funny, I didn’t finish the sixth one. I was halfway through it when… well, I just never got the chance. And I never read the last one. Saw the movies, though.”

Charlie’s chest is so tight that she feels her ribs might be snapping inward. She braves on with her most casual tone, anyway. “Well, I know what I’m getting you for Christmas.” 

The shoulders in front of her go slack on a sigh. “The last book?” Sam asks.

“The last _two_ books. And you are going to read them, or I will use the Cruciatus curse on you, Azkaban be damned.” She tugs a bit at Sam’s hair to prove her point.

Sam shakes her head in response. “Wow. That’s serious.”

“So it is.” And shit, now she’s remembering that Sam has been tortured before, has endured pain like that, has even been to Hell, and— nope. She’s not going to think down that road. Best move it along. “Yo, who’s your favorite _Harry potter_ character? I told you mine.”

Sam begins with enthusiasm, but pauses. She shifts where she’s sitting. “You can't tell Dean this conversation happened.”

“Psh, your secret's safe with me.”

"Then definitely Harry.” The nerdiness leaves Sam like so much held breath (which may or may not cause Charlie’s heart to do a little tap dance). “He’s just so focused and— good, I guess. I liked the plot twist with Snape, though; like, it opened up this entire alternate side to the story that I never considered. But Harry's definitely my favorite."

“How can you say that? Saying Harry is your favorite character in _Harry Potter_ is like saying the ring is your favorite in _Lord of the Rings_.”

“Yeah, Harry definitely doesn't swan dive into a volcano at the end.” And if that isn’t an indignant tone, Charlie doesn’t know what is.

"Whatever.” The braid is almost finished. Lower lip between her teeth, Charlie contemplates a moment before raking her fingers through her work and starting again, this time in a fishtail beginning at the scalp. Sam doesn’t seem to notice. “Who’s your favorite _Lord of the Rings_ character?”

“Hm... Aragorn, I think. You?”

“Bilbo, definitely.” No hesitation.

Sam’s head cocks slightly. “Why?”

A thousand reasons. A thousand evenings of pages turning and her mother reading until sleep crept up. A thousand hours she’s spent waiting, wishing, praying. “’Cause he kicks ass. What about Aragorn?”

A shrug. “He’s just so strong, you know? Straightforward, lion-hearted and all that. He kind of…” She huffs. “Damn, never mind.”

“No! Tell me.”

“I guess…” Sam shakes her head. “He kind of reminds me of Dean. No bullshit, just doing what he thinks is right.”

“A psychiatrist could really have a field day with that.”

There’s a soft sound from Sam, not a laugh or a sigh. It’s almost a mewl, which does strange, terrible things to Charlie’s heart. 

“You do know I'm really messed up, right? Just— straight-up damaged."

Charlie’s mouth pulls tight. “Everybody’s damaged.” 

“Not like me.”

Charlie doesn’t doubt that. But to hear Sam say it out loud… “I bet it’s not half as bad as you think. You’re a tough cookie, Sam. You know, you were kinda...” Well. Maybe she doesn’t want Sam to know that.

“I was what?”

Oh, well. Regardless of what she wants, maybe Sam _needs_ to know. “You were my favorite, when I was reading the books.”

Sam stiffens a little. “What? Why? I thought you and Dean were buddies.”

“We are. And I loved reading about Dean, like I was getting to learn his super secret backstory. But I never...” She rakes her fingers through the loose ends of the braid. “I never knew you as well. But when I was reading about you, it was like meeting you for the first time. You’re... I don’t know, you’re a better character than Dean.”

This time, Sam all but flinches. "What?”

“Not, like, a better person or anything,” she amends, stomach turning at the thought that Sam should react so violently to such a suggestion. Does she think so little of herself? “I just meant your character arc is better. Dean develops, but he’s sort of static, you know? He gets deeper and grows stronger but he doesn’t change much, not on the inside. You, though, you’re this dynamic character. You’ve been on this roller coaster, had all these highs and lows, and you’ve come out on the top. You had to claw your way here, but you’re honestly a good person. It’s kind of amazing.”

Sam is ducked and blushing up the back of her neck. “That’s…” She clears her throat, straightens a little. “You don’t have the full story. Those books didn’t include everything.”

“Are you talking about the demon blood?” 

And suddenly Charlie’s looking down into wide eyes; Sam’s spun and staring, like an animal trapped. “How do you know about that?”

“Oh.” Charlie shifts in her seat, tries to look somewhere other than those eyes, the eyes of a killer and a martyr and a child and someone ancient all at once. “There’s, um, all these extras online. Carver Edlund’s publisher released all of his unfinished and unused materials when he died.”

With a groan, Sam turns her back and slumps against the chair. “I’d kill him if he wasn't dead already.”

Somehow Charlie does not doubt the validity of that threat. “Hey, look— I’m sorry, I didn't even think about your privacy or anything, I just—”

“No, really, it’s okay. The book stuff. It’s, uh, it’s not your fault that it exists or anything.” Sam gives a little snort. “If it were me, I’d read up on us, too.” 

At least she isn't angry.

“Hey, you almost done with that braid?”

“Oh!” Braid, right. She’d almost forgotten. “Yeah, I’m almost done.” Now she feels bad for undoing it earlier. Just had to go vying for more time, didn't you, Charlie? “Sorry it’s taking so long.”

“It’s fine,” Sam says, and opens her book again.

Only a few moments pass before Charlie can’t help herself. “Listen, can I ask you a question?" Sam glances up, and Charlie barrels on before she can lose her nerve. "A book-related, crazy-Winchester-life question. I don’t mean to pry or anything, of course, and if it makes you uncomfortable you don’t have to answer, and I’m really not trying to put you on the spot or anything, but—”

Sam looks over her shoulder, and her smile is soft. “What is it, Charlie?”

Okay. Deep breath. “There’s one thing I didn't get about you when I was reading.”

God, Sam looks like a put-out puppy when her brow wrinkles like that. “Oh?”

“Ruby.” 

Silence.

No going back now. “She just… well, you always seem like you go for the nice girls, you know? Like you’re looking for somebody sweet and smart and classy. And she was smart, yeah, but just ‘cause she was a conniving bitch trying to free Lucifer from hell and all that.”

Sam’s mouth draws thin, and her jaw works. “…Is this going somewhere?”

“Yeah, I just- why trust her? You’re so much smarter than that. Uh, no offense.”

“No, none taken. I mean… I don’t know.” Sam hunches again, puts her face in her hands for a moment. When she straightens back up, it’s with a long sigh. “The thing you have to understand is that Dean was… gone, when I fell in with Ruby. He was in hell because- well, because of _me_. He was— is— literally everything I have. So Ruby came along when I had nobody in the world.”

“You had Bobby,” Charlie interjects, and immediately considers ritual suicide. Way to be a douchewad, Bradbury.

“I guess, but Bobby’s different. Dean is like—” Sam shakes her head. “God, this is going to sound pathetic.”

Charlie puts a hand to the soft slope of neck-into-shoulder before her, rubs a thumb over the terse line of Sam’s muscle. “You’re pretty much the last person I’d ever call pathetic.”

A moment eases by as Sam seems to consider that, then she makes a small, sad noise, and continues. “Dean’s my lifeline. He’s dragged me out of so much crap. He sold his soul to save my life, for Godsakes. And he’s always been the one who’s right, you know? Without him, I was… directionless. The only way out I could see was trusting Ruby, drinking the blood, and I knew it was wrong. I really did, the whole time. That’s why I never went to Bobby. But it was all I could do. And Ruby… you gotta understand, since Jess, it’s been—” She breaks off, then barks a laugh like broken glass. “I just wanted somebody. And she was too good to be true, but I needed something that good. I needed a distraction, and I needed some kind of closure. I thought I could get that if I got revenge, did the job Dean would have done. And by the time Dean got back, I was too far gone to… well. You’ve read it. I just thought that,” Sam’s voice drops to a murmur, “even if it made me evil, it would be worth it to save just a few people.”

Charlie doesn't know what to say. One of her hands still lingers on Sam’s neck; the other rests around the mostly-finished braid. Everything in her wants to slide off the chair and around the taller woman, to wrap her up, hold her a moment, remind her that the time they're speaking of is dead and gone and everything is so much better now.

But she can’t. She can’t because she felt something earlier, something more than appreciation. She can’t because now there’s warmth in places there shouldn’t be, interest piqued in parts of her that are beyond her control, and it would be wrong to feel that way when all Sam needs now is a friend. Totally not cool, Charlie. Not cool at all.

Oblivious to Charlie’s internal world of crisis, Sam asks, weary and with a brave bit of humor, “Why are you suddenly concerned with my romantic hit-and-runs, anyway?”

“I was just trying to figure out what kind of lady you’re into. You are still into ladies, right?” And _damn it_ , that sounded like an uber-badly timed pickup line. 

But Sam is unflustered. “I guess so. I haven’t thought about it much. That’s probably something I should think about if I’m gonna be like this much longer.”

Charlie tries and is only narrowly successful at not letting go of the awkward little noise that squirms on the edge of her larynx. “…So,” she says, “you really think you’re going to be like this for a while?”

Sam closes her book again with a slap. “Yeah. I’m good and stuck.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”

Sam’s posture relaxes, and she gives a low, soft kind of laugh which sends Charlie’s stomach effectively into her throat. “No, it’s not. I’m practically used to it.”

“Is it super different?”

“Not really. I kinda miss—” she ducks her head, chuckles.

“What?”

“I kinda miss peeing standing up. The sitting down thing is weird.”

Charlie giggles at that, probably a little too high and a little too long.

“And I suddenly understand the whole toilet lid thing, too,” Sam adds, and Charlie almost dies at the genuine irritation in the hunter’s voice. “Like, would it kill you to put it back, Dean?”

Now the giggling is warranted. “You’re really embracing this, aren’t you?”

“Well, I just spent half an hour doing ‘girl talk,’ didn’t I?”

Charlie tightens the last few pieces of hair together. “If you define girl talk as ‘discussing your emotions without being scared that your masculinity will be threatened by admitting you have feelings,’ then yes. That was definitely girl talk.”

“I guess I’m not that bad at passing as a chick.”

With a breathtaking view down the front of Sam’s partially-unbuttoned shirt, Charlie doesn’t disagree. “Yeah, I noticed.” The braid is finished, and she runs her fingers over the ridges of it. 

Blessedly, Sam’s phone rings before Charlie can make any more of a fool out of herself.

Sam plucks it out of her pocket, checks the ID, and answers, “Dean?”

At a curious raise of Charlie’s brow, Sam nods and lifts one finger in a “wait” gesture. “Here, one sec, Dean. I’m gonna put you on speaker for Charlie.” She presses a button, and Dean’s voice comes gruff and tinny from the receiver:

“… _can’t believe this. I found a damn priest who knows enough about the other side to bless the knife, but he’s a real tight-ass and he says he won't bless anything 'til I give him a full confessional, so. It might be a long fucking time. I need you guys to go grab the acacia while I’m stuck in the penalty box_.”

Both Sam and Charlie have their hands pressed to their mouths to avoid laughing out loud.

“Yeah, uh, sure,” Sam says, smirking, and pushes to her feet. Somehow, Charlie had forgot just how high Sam towers. “You got a place lined up?”

“ _Yeah, that old specialty shop that Keller runs. You know, the one by_ —”

“I remember where it is,” Sam interrupts, suddenly without levity. “He only takes trusted customers, Dean. You think he’ll sell to me like this? He won't recognize me.”

“ _Just tell him Sam Winchester sent you or something. I don’t now, you’re smart. You'll figure it out_.” And he hangs up without a goodbye. Sam pockets her phone as if this is normal, then settles her hands on her hips.

“Well,” she says, “looks like we’re going spell-shopping.”

Charlie may be wrong, but that sounds way cooler than clothes shopping.

———

Charlie drives, and Sam directs them to an unassuming home decor shop, of all places. It’s the only older building in a strip of remodeled stores, nestled between chain restaurants and shopping outlets. The aged front windows boast hanging baskets, dream catchers, and candles. Above the door hangs a battered, hand-painted sign that reads, _Wicks and Wonders_. Doesn't exactly scream “hunting.”

A solid wall of lavender hits them when they walk in, so strong that Charlie coughs a little.

“You sure this place is right?” she croaks.

Sam nods towards the entryway, where Charlie notices the salt line they just stepped over. 

“Keller’s the real deal. One of Dad’s old buddies, actually. Look— there he is.”

Charlie looks, and sees a man of some fifty or sixty years, partially bald, redheaded the rest of the way. He wears six or so talismans around his neck and sports tattoos on every bit of visible skin, excluding is face. His brow raises when he catches sight of Sam, and his eyes have to climb as she approaches the counter. He glances briefly at Charlie, but remains primarily concerned with the bigger of the two.

“Ladies,” he drawls. “What can I do ya for?”

The slightest twitch occurs at the corner of Sam’s eye upon being called a ‘lady,’ but she recovers. “Yeah, we need some pure acacia wood, uncarved.” She leans a hip against the counter, and though the action is casual enough, her demeanor speaks instantly of confidence and power.

Keller grunts and shakes his head. “Sorry, no can do. I might could interest ya in some acacia bowls, or maybe somethin’ decorative, but we don’t sell nothin’ pure.”

“But we really need it,” Charlie peeps. Sam casts her a narrow-eyed glance, and Keller just treats them with a bitter chuckle.

“Look, whatever home improvement you ladies got goin’, I’m sure it’s important. But we gotta keep the pure stuff for our own carvings and all. Now I might could suggest—”

“We’re hunters,” Sam interjects. “Friends of the Winchesters. I knew John.” 

Keller’s face goes flat. “Bullshit. He been dead for years, and he ain’t never mentioned you when I knew ‘im.” His eyes flick over the length of her, and he adds, “I’da remembered that.”

With a glare, Sam begins to pop open the top buttons of her shirt, and Keller’s brows raise in interest (as does Charlie’s heart rate) until Sam pulls the fabric aside to reveal her anti-possession tattoo, and that only. “Look, we know our stuff. We’re not just jack-offs.”

Snorting, Keller raises his arms and with them, what must be a hundred different tattooed charms and symbols. “One anti-demon tattoo ain’t tellin’ me shit ‘bout whether you’re responsible. Pure acacia, no pesticides, no cross breeding? Hard to come by, and not worth wastin’. Kills some real nasties. Not for _amateurs_.” 

“We’re not _amateurs_.” Sam’s voice is suddenly strong, though not angry. “Look, we’ve hunted with John’s boys— Sam and Dean. You heard of them? They said you’d help us.”

Keller’s eyes narrow. “Now what the hell’s s’posed to make me believe that?”

“They said to tell you that the witches’ teeth you sold Dean made crappy hex bags. Wore off after a couple of weeks.”

Mouth hard, Keller appraises Sam for a long moment. Finally he says, “I remember those teeth… Shitty. Doubt that old hag ever brushed.” He shakes his head. “Fine. I know better’n to cross a Winchester. You two wait here, and I’ll bring ya whatchya need.” And he vanishes through a curtain of tye-dye beads into the back room.

Sam leans against the counter again, this time letting it support her as her posture uncoils. “Don’t think I’ve ever had to drop my own name.”

Charlie smirks. “It’s an epic name, though.”

A chuckle. “Yeah, I guess that’s one way to put it.” And there’s just a note of weariness in her voice, so Charlie doesn’t say anything else.

Instead she begins to wander around the shop, inspecting its sundries. Most of the items seem innocent, but there are enough instances of taxidermy and little boxes covered in sigils that she knows the whole store thrums with power just beyond her perception. She even comes across a gnarled human femur smelling faintly of ozone, and wonders whether muggles actually come in this place. They probably wouldn't make it past the lavender... The scent is not nearly as overpowering as when they entered, but it is beginning to make her head buzz a little.

“Hey, lovely. You finding everything okay?”

Charlie looks up at the voice, and rolls her eyes instantly at its owner. He’s a shortish fellow with a calculatedly rugged 5 o’ clock shadow, a scar beneath one eye and a light purple shirt that has _Wicks and Wonders_ embroidered on the pocket. 

“Thanks, dude, but I’m just looking,” she says lightly, and turns to face a shelf full of dainty pixie figurines. 

He steps closer. “Yeah, me too.”

At that moment, Sam joins them. The creep in the employee shirt faces her, coming eye-level with her chest, and doesn't bother to look up. Sam glowers at him, but he doesn't seem to care. “Anything I can do for you two babes?” he asks.

Sam’s lips draw apart on a curl of annoyance, but Charlie slides between them, keeping her cool. She’s dealt with similar douchewads before, more often than bodes well for her opinion of the male gender. “Hey Casanova, we’re not into dudes, ‘kay?”

Employee Creep’s brows raise. “What?”

“Lesbians,” Charlie says, and gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Flaming, glittering lesbians.”

After a momentary frown, Employee Creep composes his features into an arrangement Charlie guesses is supposed to look suave, and says, “I could fix that for you.”

Sam makes an affronted sound, but Charlie just snorts. Not her first time to hear that either, unfortunately. “Yeah, no cigar.”

“I’m into watching, too,” Employee Creep says.

That’s when Sam says, “Alright,” stomps forward, and _lifts the man from the floor by his lapels_. “She said we’re not interested,” she snarls through her teeth. For a moment, he meets her eyes, and they both stare, unflinching. 

Then she drops him. His feet slap the floor and he wavers at the knees. “Jesus!” He straightens his collar as he stumbles back, nearly knocking over a row of unsuspecting ceremonial bowls. “Fine, fine, I’m outta here,” he snaps, then goes stomping like so much toddler for the door, with only the tinkling of the bell to bid him goodbye.

Charlie is dumbfounded for a total of about five seconds, then turns to Sam and says, “Dude, you were just like a frickin’ Amazonian.”

The resulting grimace is less than attractive. “Don't say that around Dean.”

“No, I mean, like, old-school Wonder Woman Amazonian!” Charlie mimes the throwing of a magic lasso. “A don't-need-no-man, super-strengthed, ass-kicking Amazonian."

Sam’s face softens a little at that, and she shakes her head. “I’m just not into dealing with assholes. You know how much worse I've been treated since I woke up with boobs?”

“Uh, yeah,” Charlie says, ‘cause she’s pretty sure she’s been treated that way since day one. Sam seems to realize this, and averts her eyes.

“I mean— damn.” She rubs the back of her neck, which turns into fiddling with her braid. “Okay, that sounded really dickish, didn't it?”

Charlie shrugs. “Could’ve been worse. At least you didn’t—”

“Gochyer acacia here,” Keller interrupts from behind the counter.

They both turn to him; Sam breaks a sigh at the sight of the delicate branches he offers in a clear plastic bag. “Thanks.”

“Ain’t no trouble. That’ll be fifty bucks.”

Sam gives a slight wince, but pulls out her wallet and forks over the cash. While Keller rings them up, she says, “You might wanna have a talk with that guy you have working here. He just said some rude things to my friend and me. I had to get physical before he’d quit.”

Keller pauses, just about to hand Sam a hand-written receipt. “Jake? You sure? Scar under his eye?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“’S mighty strange. Kid’s scared shitless of anything with a vagina,” Keller says, frowning. “He waddn’t even s’posed to be in today."

“Maybe the lavender got to him,” Charlie suggests, wincing slightly and raising both arms with a shrug. Sam turns aside to chuckle.

Keller looks unamused. “Beats me. Now you two done buyin’, or you gonna loiter?”

“We’re done.” Sam pockets the receipt and gives a strained nod. “Thanks.”

“Pleasure’s mine,” Keller grunts in a way that suggests pleasure really has nothing to do with it, and vanishes into the back of the shop.

They leave promptly; once outside where it’s gone dark, Charlie rejoices in sucking in a good lungful of pure evening air. “He was whirling vortex of sunshine, wasn’t he?” she asks.

Sam just shrugs and ducks into the passenger's side of Charlie’s car. They make the drive home in silence, which gives Charlie a pleasant twenty minutes to _not_ think about what the fragile twigs in the bag between them mean, and to _not_ think about whether it’s going to matter to her if Sam goes back to a tapering torso and narrow hips and a deeper voice, and to _certainly not_ think about how much it’s going to hurt when Sam finds someone whose blood will bless the dagger.

' _You know, someone I_ love.'

Just when she thinks not thinking is going to drive her out of her melon, they pull up in front of the bunker and Sam says, “I’m pretty sure that was the Succubus.”

Charlie balks, unsure how to deal with the squirm of terror that rears in her stomach. “What? Where?”

Sam gets out of the car and shuts the door absently behind her. She’s already halfway to the bunker before it occurs to Charlie to follow. 

Sam says, “That kid who harassed us. I didn’t think anything was weird about it until Keller said he wasn’t supposed to be in, but then I realized,” she pauses to open the door for Charlie and close it behind them, “when I grabbed him, he didn't really react. I mean, he got pissed and ran off after I dropped him, but when I had him by the shirt? He just kind of… stared at me. Gave me the creeps. Now I know why.”

Sam stops at the bottom of the stairs and shivers; a few steps up, Charlie puts her hands on her hips with a frown. “Okay, so the monster-baddie that’s trying to violate you disguised itself as a creeper in a hunter’s spell shop. What for?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says, pushing her bangs back. “I don’t think it was planning to hurt me then. These vision things it’s been calling me with, they all want me to go to it, so I don’t get why it would come to me.” Her brow furrows. “Maybe…”

Then Sam’s eyes flutter back, the strong line of her body folds like an accordion, and she hits the floor. Charlie takes the last four steps in a single leap to reach her side.

“Sam!” She falls to her knees next to the hunter. It’s heavy, but she manages to pull Sam’s body up against her and pillow the head on her legs. In this position she can feel Sam’s heart thunder, which is her only comfort as she stares at the languid mess of limbs before her. She has to hope that the episode ends without incident like last time, and nothing terrible happens, that Sam doesn't go crazy or die or—

“Charlie!” Sam jerks awake with the name on her lips and her hands fisted in Charlie’s shirt. Her eyes are wide and her breaths come hard, and it’s all Charlie can do to lean close and hold her.

“Hey, hey, you’re fine,” she says, running a hand over the back of Sam’s head. “I’m here. You’re fine. Did you see something again?”

Still gasping a little, Sam shifts to look Charlie in the eye; their noses bump. Sam’s breath smells of alcohol and cinnamon toothpaste. “It called me again. Said it wanted me. And I saw the door, but—” she draws a shaking breath, and Charlie feels the soft swell of a breast press against her own, “—I saw more, this time. An old house covered in ivy. And— rain, I think. I don’t know. It was all… wet.” 

Air slips between them, breath suddenly shared. Another inch and Charlie would know if those lips are as soft as they look.

“Oh,” she whispers.

Sam swallows. “I should—” her voice fails, and she clears her throat. “I should call Dean.”

“Uh. Yeah.” As hard as it is, Charlie pulls away. Sam gives her a fleeting smile, the sort that’s soft and warm and makes her eyes do stupid glittery things, then pushes to her feet. She offers a hand, which Charlie takes, and pulls the smaller girl up. When Charlie wavers a bit, Sam puts a hand to her hip to steady her.

And now they’re staring, standing so close that their body heat is communal, and the curve of Charlie’s hip sits oddly complacent beneath Sam’s large hand.

Then another hand on the other hip. Sam’s eyes flick to Charlie’s eyes, lips, chest, eyes again.

“Maybe you could wait a spell to call Dean,” Charlie says, soft and reverent enough for church.

Sam swallows. “Yeah.”

There’s a press of palms against hips, and Charlie is drawn slowly, wonderfully closer. She covers Sam’s hands with her own and both pairs slide up into the dip of her waist, so gradual that she’s unsure who’s really moving, like guessing at the commander of an ouija board during a slumber party. She reaches up and laces her fingers behind Sam’s neck, beneath the braid. It pulls Sam low, bending her and bowing Charlie, a congregation of angled planes.

Charlie means to play it smooth. She really does. But this is Sam, damaged and violent and probably even kind of needy, so she wants to do it right.

“Can I kiss you?” she whispers.

The shade of pink Sam’s cheeks have resigned to is absolutely, dorkishly beautiful. Her hands rise to Charlie’s ribs, warm and strong. “Don't think I could stop you.” 

And the space between them perishes.

There is no parting of lips, no moisture. But there is force, hot and close and insistent. Charlie wonders if there will be a bouquet of finger-width, pressure-pink marks unfurling on her upper ribs in a few minutes. A small sound rises in her throat and she opens her mouth to share it between them, but then the moment’s gone. Sam jerks back, leaving ghosts of short breath and chapped skin against Charlie’s lips.

Lashes shroud Sam’s downcast eyes. She breathes hard. “We shouldn’t,” she says. She straightens, pulling Charlie up with her and going a little slack at the arms. The fingertips on Charlie’s ribs fan and fade.

Charlie doesn’t move; she tightens her grip in Sam’s hair, presses herself closer. “Why?”

Sam barks a humorless laugh. “Seriously? Did you finish those stupid books? Everyone I touch—” Her eyes drop. 

Charlie’s clinging now. “Sam—”

“We can’t,” Sam says, and it’s final. She steps back, forcing Charlie to relinquish her grip. “I wish we could,” she continues. “I really— I do. But you’ve got a normal life, and I couldn’t—”

“What about the Succubus?” Charlie asks before she can tell her tongue that is a _stupid fucking idea_. Sam just stares, and Charlie wants to take it back, but she can’t now, so she clarifies, “The blood for the dagger. True love’s embrace. All that?”

The line of Sam’s jaws goes tight. She swallows, a graceful flow of smooth muscle, so different to the jerk of an Adam’s apple. “That only works if we love each other,” she says.

If that doesn’t land like a suckerpunch to the kidney. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry, I—” Sam glances off for a moment, brow folded and mouth pulled tight. When she looks back, Charlie could swear there’s wetness in her eyes. “I wish it were different. But I’m not…” She wipes her mouth, puts a hand on her hip, shakes her head. “It’s just not a good idea.”

“You’re right,” Charlie says, and it kills her, but it’s true. 

Sam apparently doesn't love her, and she can live with that. Really, if it were different, what would they do? Fall into each other’s arms, make passionate love, and then…? Charlie could go back home like she wanted to, leave this horrifying world of the Winchesters behind her, and accept that she and Sam would be notches on each other’s bedposts. Or she could stay, risk life and limb, and get her heart ripped out (maybe not even figuratively) after Sam got turned back into a man. And hell, the fact that this lady was _not actually a lady_ should have been a way bigger issue on her radar. The person she’d just practically wrapped herself around was only 72 hours off the testosterone train! What the hell, Charlie?

“I should call Dean,” Sam says, and it’s a weak, dickish excuse, but Charlie couldn't have thought of one better.

She takes a breath that catches in her throat. “Hey, I’ll call him. You go— sleep. Or read. Or whatever you do. I’ll, um,” she fumbles for her cell phone then gestures with it in her hand. “I’ll talk to him. You don’t worry about it.”

Eyes downcast, Sam nods. “Okay. Sure. Thanks.” A fleeting glance up through her eyelashes, then she’s turned and striding away towards the library.

Charlie stands a few terrible moments in the empty room, then unlocks her phone and redials her most recent call. Her hand is shaking by the time Dean answers.

“Dean? I think— I think I fucked up.”

——— 

“ _Well, that’s shitty_.”

“That’s all you got for me?” Charlie sits cross-legged and wrapped in her biggest sweatshirt on the hood of her car. The evening nips at her abused eyelids and nostrils, but the sting of each breath comes as a blessing, a purge for the heaviness of crying that’s built up in her lungs. She’s just finished pouring out her recap of the day’s events on Dean, from the sex demon harassment, to the kiss that didn't go anywhere, to the vision, to the way her heart clenches up every time Sam stumbles through her mind.

“ _Listen, kid, I ain't Dr. Phil_.” There’s a sharp snap on the other end of the line; probably a beer bottle being opened. “ _And you gotta admit there’s a conflict of interest here. Sam’s my brother. Or— well. Whatever_.” He pauses. Drinking the beer, maybe. He’s in a motel for the night after the confession and the blessing took a ridiculous amount of time, which Charlie understands but kind of hates him for, because she could really use a third party around the bunker right now. Hence being outside in 55 degrees of suck.

“I’m not asking for Dr. Phil. I’m asking for, like, Judge Judy. Tops.” And that didn't actually make much sense, but it’s cold, and Sam is beautiful, and this whole Winchester thing is ridiculous, so screw it. “I just— I’m trying to help, but I’m also kinda into watching out for number one, if you know what I mean.”

There’s a deep sigh and a long silence. Then, “ _I’m gonna be straight with you, Charlie. If you got real feelings for Sam, you sleeping with him and maybe making a little blood donation could mean ganking this nasty sunnovabitch, ergo keepin' Sam off the victim list. And it ain't like Sam couldn't use some plain old love, either. Dude has fuckin’ serious trouble with getting laid, and even worse trouble with_ staying _laid, if you know what I mean_.”

Charlie rolls her eyes despite (or perhaps because of) Dean being unable to see her. “I told you, the blood thing won’t fly. She said she doesn't love me.”

“ _In those words?_ ”

“No.”

“ _What’d he say?_ ”

“Exactly?” She rakes back over the conversation, painful as it is. “I think she said, ‘It’ll only work if we love each other.’”

Dean gives a contemplative grunt. “ _Anything else?_ ”

“Yeah, just that everyone she touches dies. Or something stupid like that.” Charlie flicks at a leaf wedged in her windshield wiper. "How could she say that?"

“ _Aw hell, he’s just being a pussy. Look, I know that kid, and he's been giving you the gooey eyes since you walked in_.”

Charlie goes still, then sits up at attention. “What? Seriously?”

“ _Yeah, seriously. He’s had a weirdo nerdy friendship crush on you since the moment you met, but I guess him being a chick suddenly made him think harder about it_.”

“And you think that when he thought harder, it was more than a nerdy friendship crush?”

“ _Listen, I don’t speak Sam. God knows what goes on in that giant head when it comes to chicks. I’m just saying, you want each other and he’s lonely as hell, so it wouldn't be a tragedy if you found a way to make it work_.”

White blooms in the air, quick puffs with Charlie's breathing. “So, you’re saying you think I should go back in there and proposition your brother so that we can kill a creature from the bowls of hell with our blood?”

“ _No_ ,” Dean says, but his voice is fond. “ _I’m saying he deserves a little happiness, and he ain't gonna get it for himself_.” A pause and the sound of bottle rim clinking against teeth, then, “ _You could probably use some good things, too_.”

Charlie can’t help but smile. “Won’t argue there.” She stretches out until her feet touch the ground, and fiddles with the hem of her sweatshirt. “Was that explicit permission to seduce Sam?”

An unattractive snort booms tinny over the line. “ _Sure, I just don’t want the details. And hey, think about coming around more often if you guys do it, huh? It’d mean a lot to him_.”

“Yeah, yeah. I would,” she says, and hopes the waver in her throat doesn't carry over. “Thanks, Dean.”

“ _Yeah, anytime. I gotta split now. I can only do so much girl talk before I gotta punch a wall and bang somebody_.”

“I’m rolling my eyes,” Charlie says, because this time it’s important he know. She can feel him smiling.

“ _See ya, Charlie_.”

And Charlie’s left on the hood of her car with a dial tone, cold fingers and a heartbeat thrumming in overtime. She perches there for a few minutes, planning, considering. (The word is probably “scheming.”) She knows she has to be delicate about it, but she also has to be forceful or Sam is just going to shirk her off again. Obviously Dean’s right, and Sam does want her, or they wouldn't have had that moment earlier. But apparently Sam’s bought into some kind of “I’m too damaged to love anyone,” or “I’m too dangerous for anyone to love me,” angsty protagonist bullshit, so that has to go before they can get serious.

God, troubled heroes were way easier to deal with when they were all fictional.

When she finally gets inside, Charlie goes first to the bedroom she’s been keeping her stuff in and sheds her sweatshirt. She starts to check her reflection, only to remember that Sam won’t know the difference if her makeup is flat or her hair is poofy, and instead kicks off her shoes and socks. After she makes sure she’s wearing decent undies (Sam would probably get a kick out of the ones with the naked chick on the butt, but she’s going to stick with _Star Wars_ this time), she turns to the mirror again.

“You are a sexy vixen,” she tells her reflection. It nods in agreement. “You are fierce and confident, and you are going to tell Sam Winchester exactly what she needs, and then you are going to have a mind-blowing time together, and then you’re going to help a monster get ganked. And there may be a day when you’re gonna bitch and moan about Sam being a full-on man again, but today is not that day! Capiche, Your Highness?”

Her reflection shrugs.

Close enough.

She goes out of her room and sidles up to Sam’s door, which is shut. She raps at it with her knuckles. “Hey, Sam?”

There’s shuffling inside, then a soft, “Come in.”

The doorknob catches when she tries to open it, and by the time she’s rattled it loose, Sam has gotten up to help her. The door swings open, and Charlie finds herself nearly bumped into the hunter. Sam wears a too-big flannel shirt, which clings to her chest and splays over her hips but just kind of hangs everywhere else. Her braid is half-undone.

“Did you need something?” she asks, voice weary.

Charlie swallows. “Um, not- not really.” She clears her throat, regroups. Sexy vixen, Charlie. Sexy vixen. “Having some trouble, there?” she asks, gesturing to the braid.

There’s a brief swipe of pink tongue over lips, then Sam glances away. “Kinda. I’ve almost got it.”

“Here, let me help.” And before she can chicken out, Charlie steps right up to Sam, close enough to detect the hitch in her breathing, and wraps her arms around that lithe neck to begin combing out the twists of the braid.

Sam gulps audibly. “Charlie—”

“Almost done,” she says. It takes only a few moments; when she’s finished, she continues to run her fingers through the wild dominion of Sam’s hair. She shifts close until they’re touching, one long line of contact from knees to chest. 

“Charlie,” Sam says faintly, a lamentation. “We talked about this.” Her eyes flick shut. She draws a deep breath, which presses her chest closer and really doesn't help her protesting. “We can’t.”

Slowly, Charlie’s hands slide from Sam’s hair to the slope of her shoulders to knead at the tense muscle there. “Someone’s gotta sleep with you if we’re going to stop that demon.” Not her best line ever, but at least it gets Sam’s attention.

Her eyes pinch, lashes long and pale and stunning this close-up. “I told you, it wouldn't count.”

And Charlie goes up on the tips of her toes, leans nearer until their lips brush. “It would for me.”

Sam stops breathing. “What?”

“It would count for me,” Charlie repeats at a whisper, because saying _I love you_ is melodramatic, and she can’t think of anything better with the swell of Sam’s lower lip on the seam of her mouth.

Sam’s eyes dart over her, rushing, over-thinking. Her lips quiver. “Really?”

She nods. “I’m kind of head over heels, Sam Winchester.” Which, okay, is way worse than _I love you_.

But that’s just fine, because Sam kisses her. It’s insistent, chin-first and forceful. Sam’s hands leap immediately to Charlie’s waist and suddenly she’s aware of how much larger Sam is, long arms pulling her in, cradling her, covering her. She locks her hands behind Sam’s neck and tries pushing off her feet, rewarded when Sam grabs a handful of her ass and picks her up. Charlie is small but it’s not often she’s with a chick big enough to manhandle her, which is a _shame_ , ‘cause she is on that like a spider monkey. They slide together seamlessly, her head tucked secret beneath Sam’s chin so that her lips can press against the pulse there, the swell of Sam’s chest soft against her sternum, her legs wrapped of their own accord around Sam’s tight waist.

“Charlie,” Sam breathes, and kisses her again, this time with tongue and teeth and not a hint of reserve. Sam’s pelvis hitches forward in an awkward grind of something that’s not there anymore; Charlie snorts a laugh that breaks the kiss.

“I don’t think it’s going to work that way,” comes breathier than she meant it.

“Old habits,” Sam says. Her tone is suddenly uneasy.

Charlie draws back. “You okay?”

“I mean—” Sam huffs a sigh, then sets Charlie gently on her feet. “Is this gonna be weird for you?”

“ _Weird?_ Is that what the kids are calling _flip-friggin’ sexy_ these days?”

Sam smiles a little, then bites her lip, because apparently she’s a tease as well as the kind of person who likes to act like they’re on Oprah just when things are getting hot. “Let’s just be clear here, okay? You’re into women, and I’m not a woman. Well— technically, at the moment, yeah. My body is. But me, Sam? Not a woman. I’ve lived my whole life as a man, and I’m still that inside, and I don’t want you to forget about that right now ‘cause my tits are great and then feel weird about it in the morning, ‘cause that would be—”

“Permission to speak?” Charlie says, and gets it regardless by pressing her index finger over Sam’s lips. “Here’s what things look like from where I’m sitting. I dig people with hips and boobs and the ability to get in touch with their feelings. I also think Sam Winchester is pretty boss. So the day when those two things are happening at the same time, I’m getting on that train, no regrets. So as long as you’re feeling fly with this, I’m there.” She lets her finger fall from Sam’s mouth, and takes a deep breath. “You _are_ fly with this, right?”

Sam nods, then smiles the kind of smile that sunflowers cry with jealousy over, and seriously, that is not fair.

“Then come on,” Charlie says. She steps around Sam and pulls at her plaid lapels, pasting on her best bedroom smirk. Sam takes the hint, follows her to the bed and watches, eyes roaming, as Charlie arranges herself back on the mattress. At a silly beckoning curl from Charlie’s finger, Sam kneels with her legs on either side of her and presses in for another kiss, this time with hands on ribs.

Charlie doesn’t realize how much pent up sexual energy she’s sitting on until the pads of large thumbs brush over her breasts— and _fuck_ , Sam’s hands are big. That’s kind of hot. “Shit,” she gasps into Sam’s mouth, very eloquently. Sam’s smile is a work of art against her lips.

With a breath to steady herself, Charlie slides her hands under Sam’s shirt and up over miles of hard, rippling skin, until her fingers curve over the heaviness of breasts. Sam misses several beats and makes a small noise.

“Oh, I am so taking off your shirt,” Charlie says, and pulls her hands out to work towards that end. Sam helps, and in a moment there’s nothing but bra in the way.

Sam says, “I’ll get it,” and lifts up a little to work at the clasp behind her back.

After waiting about three seconds, Charlie says, “Let me,” then takes matters into her own hands; the bra comes free almost instantly, forgotten the moment it’s tossed aside. Charlie sits back on her elbows and stares, feeling a grin quirk up at the full-body blush Sam’s working on. But shit, how could she not stare? Sam’s breasts fall heavy and full, nipples perked and flesh tight with goosebumps. 

“You know, you are what they call a _babe_.” Charlie punctuates the statement by reaching up to cup one breast and pressing her thumb over the nipple.

“ _Oh_ ,” punches breathy out of Sam. Her eyes shut for the barest moment. “Shit. Wow, that’s new.”

Charlie can’t help herself. “Baby, that’s not all that’s going to be new tonight.”

The line is stupid, but it's not wrong.

Next to go are Sam’s jeans, revealing a sheen of fine leg hair, which Sam outright refuses to shave when Charlie comments on it. Something about how stupid she’ll look when she’s a man again— who knows; Charlie’s far more focused on the damp cling of Sam’s underwear. Then Sam expresses her frustration that Charlie’s still fully clothed, and they take care of that. She balks for a moment at the Leia tattoo, which Charlie supposes is only fair after the leg-hair thing.

Then they’re back to kissing deep and long, and the soft mash of breasts together sends heat and the tingle of hormones all through Charlie’s belly. Sam’s hips keep hitching forward, this funny little thrust without anything to actually thrust with, but eventually she gets with the program and begins to writhe down against the knee Charlie slides between her legs. They lay this way for a while, arching and grinding, mouths hot, trading gasps and moans and whimpers (the last of these are entirely Sam’s doing. Charlie does not whimper. Yet).

Then Sam’s hips twist down just-so, and her spine bows upwards, and her mouth goes slack against Charlie’s. “Oh— _oh_ , Charlie—” then she’s gone heavy and gasping.

Charlie groans and thinks she might mumble something about _basically as hot as the Sahara_ as she strokes Sam’s back through the aftershocks. 

“Sorry,” Sam breathes after a moment.

“For what? S’awesome.”

“I just—" Sam won't meet her eyes. "That was so fast.”

Charlie yelps out a laugh. “Dude, this party ain’t over. You can still go, like, five or six more times if we’re lucky.”

“Oh, fuck,” Sam says, and covers her face with one hand. She's red and smiling. “God. Totally forgot.”

“Eh, you can make it up to me.” Charlie winks and wriggles out of her panties. Gratification balloons warm in her chest at the pure rapture in Sam’s gaze.

Sam’s smirk definitely falls somewhere on the “completely evil” end of the spectrum. “I think I can handle that.”

Okay, so. With all of the cute blushing virgin girl stuff, Charlie may or may have completely forgotten that Sam is sexually experienced with women. _Very_ sexually experienced with women. Her hands are skilled and confident and _great_ against the soft junction of Charlie’s legs, and _who in the fucking hell even has the right to be able to use their tongue like that holy shit it’s not even fair_.

By the time they've collapsed sated and heaving into each other’s arms some time later, Charlie has made several noises she usually saves for the second date, Sam has gasped many half-incoherent praises for the sexual capability of the female body, and neither are likely to move again for at least a couple of hours. They lay tucked in together, just trying to rediscover their own private rhythms of breathing, a mess of hair and parted lips on skin. Sam’s head is nestled into Charlie’s shoulder, a long arm draped across her small torso. It's almost perfect.

Charlie’s just drifting away to the gentle flow of air beside her when Sam whispers,

“This might hurt a little.”

Pain sparks on Charlie’s arm; her eyes jerk open to see Sam drawing a knife over her skin. She watches, slack-jawed, as Sam completes the small incision and it begins to seep red.

“Hand me a vial from that drawer there?”

Charlie gropes around in the nightstand drawer for a moment until she finds one, then hands it over. She swallows hard at the sight of Sam calmly collecting the little rivers of red. After Charlie's bled for a few eternal seconds, Sam hums in approval and wipes the knife on the sheet, then opens a cut on her own arm and contributes to the vial. Charlie grimaces a moment at how unsanitary that is, but figures someone who’s consumed gallons of demon blood probably doesn't think about HIV or Hepatitis. Finally Sam seems content with the contents of the vial, and requests the lid for it, which Charlie finds and hands over.

“All that so you could ice the Succubus,” Charlie murmurs. She calls up a little smile because, yeah, it’s sort of funny that they just had to sleep with each other to kill an evil spirit. Definitely sort of funny. Especially when “sort of” means “not at all ever in a million years.”

Sam sits up beside her with a soft look, brow furrowed and eyes sad. “Charlie, I’d never…” she breaks off, huffs, then presses a long kiss to Charlie’s forehead. “It’ll only work if we really love each other, you know.”

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?

Charlie swallows, tries for a response, and can’t find one. “You got a band-aid or something?”

Those stupid, beautiful eyes go puppy-dog soft with guilt. “Oh, shit. Yeah. One second.” Sam gets up and goes to the adjoining bathroom, then comes back with a small first-aid box in hand. Charlie sinks close when Sam sits next to her and wordlessly begins to bandage up the cut.

After watching the quick work of Sam’s hands for a moment, Charlie murmurs, “So, you’re going to turn back.”

Sam stills a moment, then nods, spending perhaps a little too much time lingering over the knot of the gauze.

“This is it, then.” Charlie makes sure the finality in her tone does not go unnoticed.

Sam’s hand slides up Charlie’s arm to her shoulder and kneads it with her thumb. She’s looking up through her eyelashes. “Only if you want it to be.”

Charlie’s stomach curls. “Sam, I—” And she can’t say it. It would sound too trivial, saying 'you’ll be a man,' reciting the facts, no matter how true they are. As much as Charlie loves this soul next to her, this gentle, strong, passionate person who has literally been to hell and back and somehow been made better for it, she knows she couldn't let Sam press against her with flat planes of muscle and a rough jaw and— no. The idea makes her insides twist up.

Finally, finally, she murmurs, “At least we had this.”

And Sam’s eyes are glassy, but she smiles anyway. “I’m glad we did.”

They fall asleep in each other’s arms, and Charlie dreams of a tall man with sad eyes and blood sliding down his chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy crap, this chapter got long. hope you guys like it, and sorry i had to bump it up to mature! it sort of got away from me. 
> 
> up next is the nail-biting conclusion! (nail-biting for me, because i'm still not quite sure how i'm going to end it.)
> 
> stay tuned, and please comment if you're enjoying it! (:


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam is reminded that all things have an ending.

Sam has slept with a handful of women in his life, but this is the first time the next morning has dawned without the stomach-deep conviction of lies well-told.

Because love has never been about truth for Sam.

First there was Jess, who was his everything, but who he kept the dark fringes of his past from. Then Madison, who he thought was cured, then kept clutched in his arms until the last breath shuddered out of her. Ruby, who kept his body warm and his blood boiling. Amelia, who kept his mouth off the barrel of his own gun.

And now Charlie, who keeps on loving even though she knows everything Sam has done.

That’s what makes Sam hold on a little tighter and press her face against Charlie’s chest to stave off the temptation of a sob. She wants to break down, to revel in this, this blessed goodness she doesn’t deserve, has done nothing to earn.

The way Charlie’s fingertips ran into the grooves of the scar from Jake’s knife but not a word was said about it. The way she pressed close and lost herself to the give and take of their bodies, without violence or desperation or sadness. Just closeness without anything else, a communion of body (and perhaps of soul). Her quiet happiness at making Sam writhe, her shameless press toward pleasure for herself. No pretense, just generosity counterpoint to gratitude, a symphony of _gasp_ and _moan_ and “ _Yes_ ,” and “ _More_.”

It’s the closest Sam thinks she’s ever been to anyone, even during sex; the slip of slim fingers inside should have felt like invasion, but it didn’t. It felt like the kiss of nerves, like their veins growing into each other, like being taken care of and cherished from the inside out.

Loving Charlie feels an awful lot like healing.

In Sam’s experience, healing is only a precursor to more pain. 

Several moments wander on as Sam holds the warm body beneath her, aware that she should have gotten up minutes ago but not motivated to move from the cradle of intimacy. Though it isn’t especially comfortable— her breasts press squished against Charlie’s bony hip and her arm has gone numb underneath them— she knows there is a finality to this, that they have reached a high and it can only go downhill from here. She finds home in the earthy scent of the skin around her, the softness of Charlie’s chest beneath her head, and knows she’d be perfectly happy if this happened to go on for another few hours.

Finally she gets up.

Charlie rolls limp and mumbling off her arm, then turns onto her side. Jaw hard, Sam watches the slow tide of the other woman’s breathing, commits the wild tousle of red hair to memory. And that’s probably very girlish and hopelessly romantic of her, but she’s got tits and she’s wearing pink underwear with a fucking bow on the waistband, so anyone who wants to blame her can taste a round of rock salt for all she cares.

It takes a few moments to round up her clothing, as Charlie took the liberty of tossing it to the four corners of the earth the night before, but soon she’s back in her shirt and wandering out into the library. She crosses the threshold just in time to hear the creak of the front door, and does not realize how much she has felt Dean’s absence until his presence fills the room, all smug bravado and familiarity from the top of the stairs. He crosses his arms on the railing and leans over it, smirking. A long cat-calling whistle bursts through his lips.

“Lucky night, Samantha?”

Sam scoffs as she begins to climb the stairs. “Screw you.” 

“Hey, I’m just using my observational skills,” Dean says, and okay, he’s right. She is in nothing but a partially-unbuttoned flannel shirt and underwear, and though she’s yet to look in a mirror, she can guess that on top of her head sits a mess whose picture could be found in the dictionary under “sex hair.”

She’s also about 90% sure there are hickeys involved.

When she reaches the top of the stairs, Dean’s smirk has evened out. There’s something oddly serious in his demeanor when he asks, “Seriously, though. You and Charlie?”

At the mention of Charlie’s name, Sam’s fingers skip to her neck to settle against the soft, tender place that hosts the memory of the other woman’s lips. Gooseflesh ripples out from the touch. “Yeah.”

Dean pushes out his lower jaw and raises his brow. “My kid brother’s a lesbian.”

Sam elbows him in the ribs, but she’s smiling. “Shut up.”

“Hey, whatever, it’s got my blessing.” Dean’s smile wavers. “Say, you didn’t happen to—”

Sam pulls the vial of blood out of the front pocket of her shirt, and Dean nods at it with a low sigh.

“Right. So, we’re good? Gonna gank this thing?”

The surface of the vial is warm with Sam’s body heat; she runs her thumb in slow circles over it. “You got the dagger?”

From a pocket inside his jacket, Dean produces one of their many silver daggers; it’s as unimpressive as usual, but hopefully blessed. Sam considers it until Dean returns it to whence it came, then shrugs her shoulders. “Okay. We got the acacia yesterday, so I guess we’re set.”

Dean nods again. “Good.” He leans with his elbows against the railing, clasps his hands, drops his head for a moment. When he looks up, Sam instantly identifies his look of calculated casualty. “So, the blood,” he says. “That means it’s— it’s serious? With you two. ‘True love’s embrace’ and all that.”

“Yeah. I guess so. Why?” Sam squints at her brother. “You suddenly want to talk about relationships?”

“No.” Dean looks at the floor again. “It’s just—” he scoffs, shakes his head. “Damn, I don’t know who to give the ‘if you hurt her, I’ll kill you’ talk to.”

Hands on her hips, Sam gives Dean what she hopes comes off as a considerate look. Judging by the petulant lowering of his brow, she didn’t quite succeed. “You don’t have to give that talk to anybody, Dean.”

He frowns. “Just be careful with Charlie, okay? When you change back, you gotta... I dunno, let her down easy.”

“She knows it’s temporary,” Sam murmurs, and it kills her.

Dean shrugs as he pushes off the railing. “Fine. But whatever happens, I don’t want any cryin’.”

“There won’t be.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean heads back towards the door, pausing with his hand on the knob when he reaches it. “I’m gonna grab us some breakfast. Just wanted to make sure nobody PMSed anybody else to death first.”

Sam rolls her eyes. “You know, Dean, you don’t have to—”

Then it comes, pouring into every orifice: the silence. Biting and consuming. All-encompassing. Sam reaches out for Dean quite before she even remembers what’s happening. Her hands grope along his side as everything goes weak and powerless, and suddenly she’s on the floor and her body’s limp around her.

Hands. Hands everywhere.

Scratching, clawing, touching, caressing. She tries to squirm away but she can’t move, a prisoner in her own skin. The hands invade, slip beneath her clothing, knock knuckles against her teeth, press fingertips down the slope of her spine. Her throat spasms over an involuntary whimper, but no sound comes. Just quiet.

Then _color_.

Gray hits her like a waterfall and pushes over the empty landscape, coating a sky above and a slab of asphalt below. Then she sees the door: blue and chipped, slightly ajar. Beyond its edge she glimpses the flicker of claws and quick feet, maybe a glimmer of teeth. Then around the door spirals ivy, thick and wild and green, and before the door grows a mat with the incongruously innocent Wipe Your Paws mantra on it. Beyond the door, planks of wood begin to spread, winding out until they encase the shape of a house. The roof tumbles down and off its edges go cascades of water, a sudden soundless rumble of rain. A sidewalk wraps itself around the picket-fenced front yard in a slow slither, and then Sam sees it: a street sign. Willow and Birch.

Suddenly the voice: a spine-shuddering timbre, little more than vibrations that ring through her teeth.

_I want you, Sam. Come to me. Come alone. I will ravage any uninvited guests. I want to talk with you. Come alone. Come to me._

Then coherency snaps back, stinging and complete.

“Sam? Sam?”

“I’m here,” she gasps. She finds herself clutching Dean’s jacket, head buried under his chin, just holding on. A weight comes heavy on the back of her head; she flinches, but it’s just his hand, big and stroking gently through her hair.

“Hey, you’re okay. It’s gonna be okay. You’re fine.”

And she wants to pull away, but she can’t, tethered to her brother by fingers gone numb with clinging. “I saw it. I saw where it lives,” she gasps. Talking is like gargling with jell-o. “It said— it wanted me to come alone.” She starts to stand. “I’m gonna kill this son of a bitch.”

“Whoa, whoa, hold up.” Dean fists his hands into the shoulders of her shirt and looks her right in the eyes, his brow hard. “Slow down. First of all, we ain’t got a plan, and second, no way in hell am I letting you go alone to the demon that wants to own your ass."

“ _Dean_ —”

“No. Look, you calm down. Take a walk. Read a book. Go for round two with Charlie or something— I don’t care. But we’ve waited, and we can wait a little longer. We just gotta put together a plan, figure out how I can back you up—”

Sam throws off Dean’s hands with a pitchy scoff. “It said to come alone, Dean. What do I have to do to get it into your head that I’m still capable of hunting?”

“I don’t doubt you can hunt, Sam. You’re just not going alone,” Dean snaps, swiping one hand in a gesture of finality. “I’m not gonna let some nasty bastard stick it in you just ‘cause you’re too full of yourself to know which fights to pick.”

“Too full of—?” Sam’s voice breaks off as her jaw clenches, and her neck twists in annoyance. Her skin feels too small, like every vein has gone bulging and every tendon has pulled tight. All the can think of are the words, _I will ravage any uninvited guests_. She snaps back toward Dean. “This has nothing to do with my ego! I’m saying: I’m the one with the connection to this thing, I’m what it wants, and I’ve already seen where it’s hiding. I’m on equal ground with it now, but pissing it off by bringing you would be going in at a disadvantage.”

“That’s better than going into a _trap_.” Dean puts up a hand and shakes his head before Sam can respond. “No. You know what? I’m gonna go get breakfast. You’re gonna stay here and cool down.” And he pushes out the door.

And Sam knows what she has to do.

She snatches her jacket from a peg by the door and follows Dean out. “Wait— Dean, _wait_.”

At the sweet soft note she slips into her voice, Dean pauses at the open door of the Impala, his face guarded. “What?”

“I just— I’m sorry. You’re right.” The 6 AM breeze whips by, forcing Sam’s bare legs together— and shit, she’s still in her underwear. Not one of her more thought-out ideas. “I’m sorry. This chick thing is just throwing me off.” She rubs a hand over her face, partially for effect, partially because it’s uncomfortable to stand half-naked in the driveway, even if only Dean can see her. “I need to calm down and let you in on this one. And I will.”

Dean’s mouth and brow go a little skeptical, but his voice is careful. “God, Sam. _Mood swings_.”

“I know,” Sam says, and moves closer to the car. “I’m just— sorry. I’ve been a bitch.” She moves ever-so-closer, opening her body language.

One corner of Dean’s mouth flirts toward a smirk. “I ain't gonna disagree. Look, we’ll work out a plan when I get back, okay?”

Sam nods and takes one step nearer. “Okay.”

Then she hugs him. Dean goes stiff and grumbles something annoying about “tits, dude,” but gives her a grudging pat on the back after a moment. When she draws away, he flashes her a tense almost-smile, like someone skimped on the onion in his burger and he’s trying to be nice about it, then retreats to the car. In moments, the Impala is a fading shape down the road, leaving dust in its wake.

Sam figures she has about two minutes before Dean notices she lifted the dagger from his jacket. 

She rushes through the bunker, slipping silently into her room for her clothes and the emergency hunting bag she keeps under her bed. Hopping from one foot to the other as she pulls on her pants, she makes for Charlie’s room, where she rifles around until she finds keys. Next she scrambles to gather the acacia, which she shoves into the bag, then struggles to get her bra on as she takes the stairs two at a time. Last on are her shoes and shirt, then she’s peeling off in Charlie’s car (and she is not going to think about what a major dickbag that makes her).

The road unfolds before her in a finite tug, much different from the sensation of aimless endlessness its twin lanes usually exude. A destination sits, clear and immovable, on the edge of her consciousness, like this is the only road in the world, and it’s taking her right where she needs to go. She can’t explain how she knows without a map which turns to take; the road just leads her. This sensation sends her blood buzzing. It’s a familiar feeling, the kind she gets when she realizes _oh crap that was too easy_ or _wait just a damn minute this is a trap_.

Rain begins to tap the windshield, and that’s when she sees it.

The house of the Succubus sits gentle and unassuming amid sculpted mantles of greenery, all glistening bright with rainwater. Ivy curls around the posts of the small porch, and there’s a mat reading _Wipe Your Paws_ before the peeling blue door. Sam grimaces at it.

She parks a few blocks down and prepares herself for battle. After a few miscellaneous demon-proofing measures, she sets about enchanting the dagger. It’s not the cleanest job she’s ever done, but assuming Dean’s priest blessed it correctly, the acacia ashes are pure, the water from her emergency bag is still holy, and her and Charlie’s blood is valid, it should all go well.

So, overall, chances are as good as usual.

Sam pulls her jacket on tight and steps out into the drizzle, enchanted knife and silver-bulleted gun both tucked into the band of her jeans. A low creak issues from the gate of the picket fence when she pushes through it, causing her to tense in anticipation of an alerted enemy. But the Succubus is already expecting her, isn’t it? She could probably scream and shout and execute dance moves on the lawn and it wouldn’t make a difference. With this pleasant thought in mind, she reaches the front door, where she frowns down at the mat. A deep breath, an exhale, and Sam lifts a fist to knock—

The door peels open to a grin of a hundred teeth. 

“Sam, darling,” says the Succubus.

Sam’s stomach shrivels up.

The Succubus stands a head shorter than her, androgynous and haunting, but certainly beautiful. Black hair slips smooth over fine shoulders, eyelashes short and thick, features strong. The teeth gleam with saliva. Its voice is heavy and smooth and slithering: 

“I’m so happy to meet you, sweetie.”

“I think we’ve already met,” Sam growls.

A grin splits the Succubus’s face wide open. “Oh, of course,” it says, and suddenly the boy from _Wicks and Wonders_ stands there, purple shirt, stubble, scar and all. He’s still grinning, this unholy thing that strains his lips until their chapped edges crack.

Sam suppresses a shiver, but does not waver. “Cute trick.”

“Oh,” its voice comes eerie, like it’s speaking through a garbage disposal, “honey, that’s not the cutest trick I have.” Then a shiver, a twist, and the Succubus becomes the questionable sales clerk from the unmentionables store and— shit, that actually makes a lot of sense. The smile is the same, chilling and too-toothy. 

“And,” it continues, artificially chipper, “my personal favorite.” Its hair goes frizzy and discolored, its body turning smaller and skinnier, and Sam recognizes the jittery little waitress from her first night after the change. “I couldn’t resist. I had to see you in person, Sam, get in a touch here, a compliment there— you’re _so pretty_ ,” it finishes in a mocking squeak of the waitress’s voice.

Chaos thrums through Sam’s body, an unpalatable mixture of chilled skin and boiling stomach. “You were that guy at the bar, too, aren’t you? The one that groped me.”

For a moment the Succubus-waitress’s face goes blank, then the pretty little features slide to their original posts, and they’re laughing. “I saw that fellow. Wish I’d been able to get that close to your lovely drunken self, but I know better than to threaten you in front of that brother of yours, darling.”

Unsure whether to be glad that the Succubus didn’t stalk her while inebriated, or upset that the bastard in the fishing hat is actually a real-life douche bag walking the earth, Sam grimaces.

The Succubus simply smiles wider. “Oh, don’t make that face. It’s unbecoming of those beautiful eyes and— oh, that mouth.” Its hand leaps to Sam’s lips; she slaps it away and jerks back. The Succubus presses forward a blushing lower lip. “Don’t frown, dear. Smile! Your smile is so lovely. I could fall _head over heels_ for that smile, Sam Winchester.”

There’s a hitch in Sam’s chest. The earth goes jittery beneath her feet. “Where— where the hell did you hear that?”

“From your lovely friend, of course!” A pat of condescension to Sam’s cheek, then the Succubus stands back and gestures to the house inside. “Come in, won’t you, darling?”

“No,” Sam hisses, and she’s seething, now, sucking deep breaths and fighting the urge to draw the blade and _gank_ the damn thing. “How did you know Charlie said that?”

“Oh, sweetie.” With a flippant wave of a hand, the Succubus lets roll a low, creeping laugh. “You’ve been hearing my beckoning for days, now. Did you really think it was one-way?”

“What— how much did you see?”

A smirk full of teeth. “Everything, sugar-pea.”

“Why?” Deep breaths, Sam. Deep breaths. She itches to snatch a weapon out of her pants, but would it be surprised? Was it watching her in the car preparing, too? “Why watch me?”

The Succubus drips forward, liquid legs and flowing arms, so close that Sam can smell sulfur and cologne. “It’s all about foreplay, Sammy.”

“ _Don’t_ call me that.”

“Oh, you’re so dominant!” A hand goes to the Succubus’s sternum, poised in a raised-pinky imitation of flattery. “Just like you were with that little ginger vixen.”

Sam’s vision goes blurry at the edges. “You- you— shut _up_.” Her teeth grind together. “You _watched_?”

“Of course, darling!” the Succubus laughs. “Why do you think I change the bodies of my partners before I take them? All humans are the same. Give them a new suit and they simply must try it out. And you didn’t disappoint! Live Samantha-cam? Better than _Casa Erotica_ any day. Especially Charlie. Oh, did she ever have her way with you!”

Sam's hand whips out the gun and fires off a shot before her brain catches up. The Succubus, missed by an inch, goes wide-eyed.

They stare.

The gun fires, cuts air once, again, again; the Succubus swerves, dodges, laughs.

“Easy, sweetie! Don’t tire yourself. I don’t want you all pliant when I get to you. I like ‘em with some _fight_.”

Another shot, another miss. The Succubus leaps backwards into the house and Sam follows. It dances backwards over a coffee table. A bowl of potpourri overturns with a crunch of dead flowers as Sam lunges after. She fires every time she thinks she has a chance, shooting wide at the Succubus, who winds away on fluid laughter. Then Sam gets a shot in— a nick, just by the hip— and the monster shrieks, face contorting into a mess of furrowed flesh and teeth. It turns black eyes on Sam, then with a sweep of its hand, the gun goes flying to the other side of the room.

Next thing Sam knows, she’s on the floor with the air knocked out of her and an immovable Succubus crouching on her stomach.

“Did you really think this would end well, sweetie?” It grabs her by the wrists and presses her supine against the floor so that her spine stretches and the dagger at her back presses sharp into her skin.

“Why are you doing this?” Sam seethes through her teeth. “Why me?”

The Succubus rolls its eyes. “Because, Sam, you’re a fine catch.”

“But you changed me—”

“Not your _looks_ , Romeo. If that was my only criteria, I _so_ would’ve gone for your brother. No, I choose my victims by their souls, and I _love_ your soul, Sam. It’s— it’s so _raw_.” It shudders over the last word, making Sam’s stomach go all twisty. “The skin of your soul’s been all gnawed and stripped, and you know what’s underneath? _Power_. You’re the most powerful human I’ve ever come across. You’re _special_. You’re the Boy King, Sam Winchester, hand-fashioned to cradle Lucifer himself like it’s nothing. Your blood is like gold and acid, and your spirit… oh, I could just lick it. So much mingled desperation and endurance, just a cocktail of martyrdom. The very same martyrdom that threw the apocalypse into a grinding halt. _That’s_ powerful. And do you know what, darling? Sex is power. Power is sex. And what better way to appreciate your power than to watch it torn away while you writhe all helpless underneath me?”

Sam’s jaw aches, her teeth are clenched so tightly. She heaves deep breaths through her nose. “I’m gonna kill you.”

The monster rolls its eyes. “Please don’t. I’ve never been so hot on necrophilia, darling.” And it pushes its hands up underneath Sam’s jacket.

Then it freezes. Tries to move. Can't. Its eyes widen. “What—?”

Sam will never be sure how this happens. Perhaps it is her own cunning, or the Succubus driven to carelessness by its own lust, or maybe just pure, dumb, Winchester luck. Probably a mixture.

Whatever it is, it converges to give Sam the power to throw her jacket over the Succubus, pinning it beneath the devil’s trap drawn on the inside, then go for the dagger at her back, and flip them. She lands crouching on the creature with her knife-tip pressed against its throat. They stare at each other, breathing mutually hard enough to power a wind turbine, then the Succubus gasps,

“How—?”

And Sam says, “Should’ve paid better attention.” She presses forward with the dagger.

The succubus squeaks. “Wait, wait!” it cries, writhing against the weight of Sam’s thighs. “Look, look, here’s the thing: I’m willing to offer you a deal. You let me go, and when I’m good and far away and I’m sure you’re not following me, I’ll turn you back.” At Sam’s silence, it gulps. “Or, you can kill me right now and be stuck like that forever. Your call.”

Sam’s lungs feel far too small, like they’re going to collapse in on themselves if she doesn’t get control of herself. “You’re fucking insane.”

“No, darling, just a sadist.” 

Sam clenches down on the monster with her thighs, and it squirms beneath the jacket, hissing. “Whaddaya say?" it gasps. "Ready to lose the soft bits and get back to normal?”

“What makes me think I’d trust you?”

“Oh, I don’t think you would. I think you know I’d just go out and keep doing what I’ve been doing: defiling virgins, sucking souls dry, spying on nerdy little redheads who get zany in bed. I just think you’re willing to look the other way if it means getting reunited with your penis.” Then it smirks. “All the other hunters have been. After I had my way with them, of course. They didn’t get the drop on me like this.” It shrugs. “Like I said, you’re special.”

“I guess I am.”

Then Sam clutches the Succubus by the hair, wrenches its head back, and drives the dagger into its neck. A deafening shriek issues broken over the metal, muffled in blood. The monster goes hitching and twisting and finally boneless, its eyes a void of demon-black.

Sam shoves to her feet, cleans the dagger on her jacket. Stands there a moment, looking down. Breathes deep. Trembles.

So, it’s over.

Sam Winchester resigns herself to the fact that she’s done the right thing, wipes a shock of blood off her cheek, and leaves the door open behind her when she leaves.

———

Charlie is waiting for her in front of the bunker.

Sam parks in the driveway, gets out, and hardly has a chance to take Charlie in— unshowered, rigid, paler than usual— before the redhead is saying, so quiet it’s hardly audible over the wind,

“You scared the shit out of me.”

Sam stops cold. Fuck. She hadn’t given a single thought to whether Charlie would be worried. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

“Stop. Please. Sam, I just—” Charlie’s lips tighten and she glances to some far-flung place, shifting on her feet. When she meets Sam’s eyes again, there’s a barely perceivable shake about her. “Dean freaked when he got back. Told me what you saw.” Her forehead laces into furrows. “Did you go after the demon?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Did it—?”

“No. I’m _fine_.”

A sharp nod, then Charlie covers the last few feet between them and lands a punch against Sam’s arm. It doesn’t hurt, but Sam staggers all the same, taken aback.

“You are a douchewad!”

Sighing, Sam rubs uselessly at her shoulder. “I know.”

Charlie puts her hands to her hips. “What if it had done something awful to you? Or you had died?” Abruptly she stills. Her face softens for a moment, then tightens up again. “You know, _permanently_.”

Taking a gamble, Sam puts one hand heavy on Charlie’s shoulder and is rewarded when the muscle goes soft and Charlie leans into the touch. “It told me to come alone, Charlie. Dean wasn’t gonna let me, so I had to leave quick. But it’s fine. It wasn’t nearly the worst demon I’ve ever dealt with.” A smile takes hostage one corner of her mouth. “Died easy and everything.” 

Charlie’s eyes widen. “Wait, what? You killed it?”

Sam nods. Charlie looks her up and down, then takes a step back. “Is it— what, delayed-acting fix? Do you take a while to change? You don’t have to, like, shed your skin or anything, right? ‘Cause that’s—”

“Charlie.” Sam brings both of her hands down on Charlie’s shoulders, gentle and quieting. “I had to kill the Succubus. It wouldn’t change me back.”

There’s a moment of tense confusion, Charlie’s eyes slightly narrowed and her shoulders hard, then she goes slack.

“But you’re still…”

Sam puts her hands out in display. “Yep.”

Charlie’s eyes go a million miles an hour, skipping from the blood on Sam’s jacket to her tangled hair to the slope of her hips. “But that means—”

“Yeah. It’s permanent.” And that should probably scare her more than it does. Maybe it hasn't sunk in yet; maybe she’ll wake up in the middle of the night days from now on the verge of mental breakdown; maybe she’ll never give it a second thought. But right now, it’s got her heart racing. “Look, Charlie, since I’m— you know, since I’m this way indefinitely now, and since our blood worked on the Succubus, I was wondering if you’d. You know.” 

Charlie shifts. “If I’d what?”

Fuck, Sam. You can do it. She draws a deep breath and says on the exhale, “If you’d stay here with me.”

Silence. They stand, staring at each other, two parts separate trepidation to one part shared shock: shock that Sam would actually ask for this, this thing so illusive that neither of them should have dare to think of it. Because who would have thought Sam would ever be here, a new vision, standing before an old friend and asking her to be something more? Is it even possible? It could be a ridiculous hope, something as foolish— but isn’t that what their world is made of? Impossible things? Sam wants to believe. Wants to think she can have this one impossible thing, this tiny sliver of happiness.

Sam almost hopes.

Then Charlie says, “I _can’t_.” 

A gulp punches down Sam’s clenching throat. “Charlie—”

“You were right. Earlier. When you said— you said we shouldn’t. And you were right. I’m not—” Her head falls to one side and huffs out a breath, like her neck and lungs just gave up. “I’m not made for all this. I wish I could be a badass demon-fighting research babe with a hot, sensitive girlfriend who kills sons of bitches and takes names, but who am I kidding? That’s not me. I sit at desks and only talk to people in roleplaying games, and I can’t live thinking that…” She rolls her shoulders and finally meets Sam’s eyes. She’s cringing. “Thinking that either of us could die bloody any day.”

“It’s not like you have to go out and hunt with us or anything,” Sam says, and it’s too quick, too desperate. But she goes on. “This place is warded against everything you can think of. It’s, like, the safest building on the planet. And there’s that extra room if you want it— or, you know. My room.” _Shitshitshit_ Sam, why would you say that? “I mean, I can’t make you stay. It’s not like this is an awesome life or anything. But I know what I’m doing, and I’m still here, right? You don’t have to worry about me. And you can be okay here. Safe and everything.”

When Charlie says nothing, Sam steels herself, thanks the absent God that she’s come low enough to do this, and begs. “ _Please_ , Charlie.”

Because Charlie can’t leave. She can’t leave Sam alone with Dean again, Dean and his renewed skepticism, with that look in his eyes like he’s got to fix Sam again, like being in a different body is the same as getting in bed with a demon or having no fucking _soul_. She can’t do it, can’t keep living without one single person who believes in her. Because she’s done so, so many terrible things, and because of them she doesn’t deserve Dean. But she’s purged herself as best as she can, trying to be pure, trying to be good enough, and Charlie is the only one who’s noticed. Now that she’s had a taste, she doesn’t know if she can go without.

If that isn’t sick and dependent, she doesn’t know what is. 

Charlie’s lip gives this helpless little quiver and she breathes, “I’m sorry, Sam.”

And that’s that. 

Head hung, Sam digs Charlie’s keys out of her pocket and tosses them back to her. Charlie catches them, makes a small noise that could be “thanks” or could be “sorry.” Then she draws forward and pushes her arms around Sam, who leans down against her, wrapping the smaller body up in her grip, clutching, cherishing. They stand there in each other’s warmth until Sam feels a spot of moisture growing where Charlie’s face is pressed against her chest.

They don’t look at each other when they pull apart. 

Sam takes out her phone and turns her eyes to it (12 messages, 9 missed calls). She fires a text to Dean ( _i’m ok. back @ home. srry_ ) and very deliberately does not look up as she hears the bunker door clang shut behind Charlie. 

When she heads inside, herself, she goes straight to her room, locks herself in the bathroom, and strips down. She showers mechanically, focused purely on each task at hand. If her body is shaking and all she wants to do is sink down into the bottom of the shower and lay there, then that’s just the ecstasy and agony of a close hunt. That’s all. She doesn’t bother to wring out her hair when she gets out of the shower, ignoring the dark spot that spreads across the shoulders of the overlarge t-shirt she pulls on. On the bottom, she wears an old pair of jeans. She doesn’t touch the clothes Charlie helped her pick out.

As planned, Charlie is gone when she emerges from her shower. The room Charlie had been in is vacant of her bag, and her iPad is gone from the library table. Just to be sure, Sam checks the driveway; no car.

She’s just about to head back in and drink every drop of alcohol she can find when the low rumble of the Impala breaks over the bunker walls. She turns, and sure enough: there’s Dean, tearing down the driveway. He executes one of his poorest parking jobs yet and throws the door open.

“Sam!” Dean pushes out of the car. “What the _fuck!_ Are you alright? What the hell happened?”

“It’s dead,” Sam says.

The shoe drops. Dean’s face goes loose. “You’re still a girl,” he says.

Pause.

Down comes the other shoe. “Wait— shit, Sam, you ganked it before it turned you back?”

Sam sighs. “It gave me an ultimatum. It was only gonna turn me back if I let it go.”

For a moment Dean just sputters, then he throws out his arms. “So you should’ve let it go!”

“Dean! It was a _rapist demon_. Are you kidding me?”

“I don’t know, Sam! Are you prepared to be a girl for the rest of your fucking life?” He’s breathing hard, now. Distressed. Worried?

Sam’s insides thrum with unrest. She doesn’t know what to do with this. “Hey— Dean, it’s okay.”

“ _No_ , it’s fuckin’—”

“ _Yes_ , it is.” She expects backlash, but Dean stills at the conviction in her tone. A deep breath, then she continues. “Look, we kill monsters. It’s what we do. And that was— that was one of the worst monsters I’ve seen.” Dean’s brow goes skeptical at that, but Sam forges on. “And it’s not like I’m not gonna miss the way I was before, but this isn’t so bad. It’s not any worse, just different. And okay, maybe I would have wanted to go back to normal, but I kind of like this too, and we’ve been through a lot of new normals, so maybe this is one of those. _Seriously_ , I’m fine.”

Dean frowns. “Sam, I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve told me you’re fine and it was actually true. You could be having the fucking identity crisis of the century in there and I’d never know. You wanna be a chick forever?” He tosses up his hands. “Hell, whatever! But you gotta be honest with me about what’s going on in your head, 'cause I can’t do this thinking you might be eternally fucked over in there, and I can’t go hunting with somebody who can’t even get a handle on themselves.”

Everything inside of her clenches up, throat and chest and stomach. “It’s not like that. I’m— I don’t know, Dean, I’m stable, okay?” She rakes her hands through her hair, fingers catching in the wet ropes like seaweed. “And look, I’m not a chick.”

“Yeah, Sam, you kind of are. Permanently.”

Sam sighs and reaches blindly for the right words. “Yeah, okay. Sure. I permanently _look_ like a chick. But this?” She gestures down her body, watching Dean’s eyes flow with her hands. “This isn’t _me_. It’s mine. It belongs to me. But what’s actually me is all of the stuff in my head, and in my head I can still hear Dad telling me to man up, and I still remember the first time I wore a tie and liked feeling like a gentleman, and—”

“Is this nostalgia-fest going somewhere?”

“I’m _saying_ , in my head I’m still me, and that’s how I’m gonna keep thinking of myself. I have never, nor will I ever be, a woman, regardless of looks, and I need you to get that.”

A sound of confusion escapes Dean; he watches Sam with a labored look, as if this is all Greek to him but he’s going to figure it out, or die trying. “So basically, we’re gonna pretend you’ve got a dick and move on?”

“No,” Sam sighs. “You’re just gonna stop calling me girl names, remember that my tits don’t erase a whole lifetime of me being your brother, and move on.”

Dean frowns. “Still sounds to me like you wanna get out of your skin.”

“Then check your ears, Dean,” Sam snaps, and regrets it instantly. “Look. This isn’t my first choice, but I’m not messed up about it. I know who I am, and none of this changes that. I don’t really feel different on the inside. Got the same reflexes, muscle memory, all that. I like the same food. I can still run a couple of miles.” A wistful smile spreads up into her dimples. “Sex is still good.”

Groaning, Dean bats a hand at her. “Way too much info, man.”

“The point is that I’m fine. A nasty-ass demon is dead, I’m in one piece, and honestly? I feel comfortable in my own skin, which is more than I can usually say.” She shrugs. “I dunno. This could be some kind of second chance. Maybe this time, I can be Sam and be... okay.”

And Dean looks at her, honestly looks. The lines sit sharp on his face; the corners of his mouth pull. Then his eyelids draw together and there’s a slight nod to his chin. “Okay, Sammy,” he murmurs. “Okay. I don’t really get it, but I respect it.” He sighs. “You’re my brother, and you're happy. So, what the hell?”

Sam wonders if Atlas would feel like this, were the earth lifted from his shoulders.

A shuffle of feet, then Dean says, unexpectedly, “Y’now, you remind me of her when you’re like this.” Sam’s stomach goes aflutter at the mention of _her_.

“Kinda sound like her,” Dean continues. “And that smile—” He shakes his head. “Maybe a little too close to home.” He clears his throat. “But it’s good.”

Before Sam can even consider how to react to that, Dean punches her none-too-lightly on the arm and pulls on his bravado just like that.

“I’m still fucking _pissed_ you went after that thing by yourself,” he says in a tone that suggests “fucking pissed” is a bit of an exaggeration. 

Sam sighs into the collar of her shirt. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

He puts up his hands in mock innocence. “All’s I’m saying is you totally deserve bleeding out your crotch once a month for the rest of your life.” 

“Gross, Dean,” Sam says, but there’s no venom there.

Dean dismisses her. “Gross for you, not for me. I don’t wanna know about it. Guess that’s what Charlie’s here for.” He glances around, frowning. "Where is she, anyway?"

Fuck. Sam looks away, unsure what her expression will say, whether Dean will blame her or look down on her or God knows what.

His voice is careful. “Sam? What happened?”

“I asked her to stay.” Sam’s voice is strained. She pushes her hands deeper into her coat, still refusing to meet Dean’s gaze. “She didn’t want to. Left about twenty minutes ago.”

“God,” Dean murmurs. “Sorry, Samantha.”

Sam shakes her head and scoffs low. “Are you kidding, man? I just said—”

“I know, Sammy,” Dean says. “I know.” Then he hugs her, brief but tight, so quick that Sam hardly thinks to return his squeeze before he’s pulling away. He claps her on the back. “Sorry.”

She is really not going to think about the way her eyes are stinging. “Are we good?” she asks, cautious.

Dean cuffs her on the shoulder, and then he starts _smiling_ , of all things. Nothing big or bright, just kind of sad, kind of resigned. But smiling. “We’re good.”

And Sam could live with that. She could survive on Dean’s stunted affection, on the first signs of trust budding between them again. She could forget Charlie and go back to sharing beers and cleaning guns and falling into step with her brother, and that could be okay.

But for once in her long and damned life, Sam is allowed to be more than okay.

Both Winchesters turn simultaneously at the sound of the approaching engine. The yellow shock of Charlie’s beetle turns the corner and Sam doesn’t dare to get her hopes up— maybe she forgot something, or she’s coming back to see Dean, or- fuck, who knows?— but then Charlie throws the car into park a hundred feet up the drive and busts out of the door. She comes down the road at a run. Sam hardly has time to register the cry of, “I’m sorry, I’m the worst at big decisions!” before they’re only feet apart and Charlie is fucking _leaping_.

Charlie’s legs wrap instantly around Sam’s waist, and Sam doesn’t miss a beat, just puts one foot behind her for balance and holds Charlie effortlessly against her. For a moment they stare, wide eyes into wide eyes, then Charlie says, “I’m stupid. Of course I’ll stay. I'm still scared shitless, but that's the point, right? I want to learn how to gank things, and I want to fall asleep on big smelly books while we're trying to research, and I want to wake up next to you in the mornings, and yes, _yes_ , I want to stay.”

Charlie kisses Sam like the whole world is riding on it.

And it’s so right. It’s good and perfect and everything Sam has ever wanted, clumsy and impassioned and featuring some slightly inappropriate tongue. Charlie’s hand goes tight and almost painful into her hair, and Sam's arms tremble under Charlie's weight as she crushes them together, and _yes_. God, yes, she deserves to win for once. She lets slip a helpless, joyful noise into Charlie’s mouth; Charlie laughs and winds her arms around Sam's neck, pushing them closer.

Somewhere out in the real world, Dean says, “Jesus! Get a room!”

Charlie smiles against Sam’s lips, then flips Dean the bird.

And Sam believes, for the first time in a long time, that happiness could be possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks everyone so much for your support! i hope you all enjoyed it! please let me know if you did. (:


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